by Maria Ling
The Norman's Captive
by Maria Ling
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Maria Ling
Cover image copyright Vaidas Bucys - Fotolia.com
Published by Byrnie Publishing
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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***
CHAPTER 1
So this was England, Roland thought. He liked it so far, green pastures and fields of wheat, blossoming thickets frothy white and humming with bees. Liked it better for what it had yielded him, horse and armour from six men.
He'd had a good tourney, for all the meet was a small one. His friends hadn't done so badly either, at least they were whole and well -- apart from Guillaume's broken shoulder, which was part of the risk. God would have His payment too. He'd taken teeth from all of them, Roland probed the worst gash with his tongue, caught the ragged edge and sliced blood into his mouth. Eh, not the first time. He leaned aside to spit, caught his horse with hands and heels as the animal startled, settled deep into the saddle and glanced around for signs of danger. Not an ambush, surely, his brother's letters never stopped bewailing the peace of the English countryside now that the Empress had been broken and King Stephen's throne secured.
What, then? He strained to see, woodland grew close to the road on one side here, only a narrow ditch between him and the trees.
The yell of men's voices startled him, he drew his sword on impulse, his attendants readied their bows. A figure shot from the woods, leapt the ditch and grabbed the bridle of his horse, ducked under the beast's head as Roland raised his sword for the strike. Lost its footing and grabbed his boot on instinct, turned a pale frightened face up towards him. He lowered his sword then, saw what in the first flush of fear and rage he'd missed, that it was a woman, young and bleeding, nose swollen and lip split.
She found her feet and was away again. The men burst through the wood in pursuit, big and burly enough, howling in their own uncouth tongue. They held back for a moment, seeing horses and armour and blade, bobbed their heads in perfunctory respect, took up the cry again. Stepped past the beasts and sped out in the fields on the other side of the road. The woman struggled on bravely, but they gained on her fast.
Roland sheathed his sword and galloped after the girl. He didn't much care what peasants did as a rule, but they'd upset his horse and he wasn't having that. Besides, the girl was lissom enough, he could do her a good turn and she'd be grateful after.
The men swerved aside as the horse approached, slowed and cried encouragement. Roland passed the woman, swung hard to cut off her path, leaned down and seized her by the waist, then hauled her up in front of him. She elbowed him in the face, no submissive wench this, he got her wrists together and kept them in a hard grip with one hand, held her tight around the waist with his arm. Rode back towards his entourage at a walk, ignored the men's shouts of appreciation that soon turned to howls of dismay as it became clear he was making off with their prey.
The woman still struggled, fool that she was.
"I'm not going to hurt you," Roland said. Granted, he probably already did. "Not worse than they mean to, anyway. What are they after you for?"
She slackened in his arms, well, he hadn't expected her to keep the fight up for so long. Luckily the horse was a stoic animal, only flicked its ears in irritated forbearance when in her struggles she'd kicked its side.
"Leave my horse alone," Roland added, belatedly. "He's not a cushion."
She turned her head as if to speak to him, but he didn't loosen his grip. Wasn't going to fall for that one, girl, no, she'd have to come up with something better. She spoke then, something quiet and indistinct.
"What?" Roland demanded. The men had gathered into a scowling group, and now approached Guillaume, who eyed them with a killing stare.
The woman spoke again, a little louder, but with no better sense. Damn these heathens, his brother had mentioned that they never did speak French.
"Looks like they want her back," Geoffrey said. "Shall we kill them or just let them slope off home?"
"Whichever you like," Roland said grandly. "I've got my entertainment here."
One man, who apparently considered himself a leader, took a step forward and harangued Guillaume at some length in their incomprehensible speech.
"Eh," Guillaume said. "I'm not in the mood. Archers!"
The men backed away at the sight of bows drawn, then ran for the wood. Half went down with arrows in their backs, the rest disappeared.
"Lousy shots," Guillaume said. "Floggings all around tonight. Except for those of you who got your men. Forward."
They rode on. The girl wriggled, and Roland increased the strength of his grip. She gave a brief sharp whimper, then ceased to struggle. He loosened his grip a little, just enough to let her know that was a reward. She sat quietly after that, and he brought her unharmed to his brother's castle, save for her broken face and the growing bruises on her wrists.
***
"Get rid of her," Henry said. "I won't allow women in the castle."
They stood in the shadow of the gatehouse, while in the bailey below men and horses were being led away for tending. Henry glared at the girl, who stood mute and dejected by Roland's side.
"Except for your wife and her attendants," Roland said. "Or do they sleep in the moat?"
"Common women," Henry amended. "It's bad for discipline. And they smell."
"This one's not too bad." He hadn't noticed any smell, except for blood, but he'd assumed that was his own. "She'll sleep in my bed, you won't even know she's here."
"What makes you think you'll sleep in a bed?"
"Well, whatever corner you can spare for me, then."
"That's what I was afraid of. They'll all want to take a turn."
Roland pushed the girl behind him. By now she knew better than to resist. "Tell them to get their own."
"If all you're after is one to fuck -- "
"No." Roland spoke with exaggerated patience. "This one's mine. Got that? Not yours, not anyone else's. I don't share."
"You'll have to," Henry said wearily. "This place isn't big enough for your Norman grab-and-hold. Turn her over or turn her out, either will do. But I'd rather you got rid of her."
"Not in question."
Henry heaved a sigh. "Then keep her out of sight as best you can. You can have the -- sacred mother of God, I don't know what corner you can have. I was going to lay you on the floor in my own room, but not with her. I don't know. Tie her up somewhere until I've had a chance to think. And for God's sake, keep her away from my wife."
***
Leofe staggered along, pulled by the knight's relentless grip. He wasn't going to let go of her, she knew that by now, he had his prize and he'd hold her until he'd finished with her. Him and all the others, sweet Lady there were so many of them. She wanted to weep but no tears came, she was dry with terror and pain. Shouldn't have run from her brothers, should have let them kill her as they wanted to, she wasn't a harlot no matter what they said, but she'd be one now. Here in a castle full of men, she struggled for tears when she saw how many. They'd kill her in the worst of ways, she should have let her brothers hang her and not fled from them, it would have been an easier death than this.
So many rooms, all gloomy and cold with stone walls under the white plaster, sweet Lady how could they find me
n enough to fill them all. Kitchen and stores and here an odd space comfortingly small, with wall-slits opening out on one side and shelves full of strange rolls on the other. More men, only two of them though, and they rose with haste as the Norman dragged her in, nodded at some curt command of his, dashed out of the room with barely a glance at her.
The door shut, she was alone with her captor, it would be here then. Here and now, and with only one man, at least to start. She'd nerve herself to endure that, one must be only the beginning.
He released her arm, left her to rub life back into it and look around with foreboding while he pushed two small wooden tables and stools back against the wall of shelves. Leofe stared at the plank floor, not so much as a blanket on it, she supposed he'd find her soft enough to lie on. Tears came then, at last, but no sobs, just a long slow trickle of hot water down her cheeks.
The door opened. Leofe froze, and her tears dried up abruptly. Not one man alone after all, he'd been waiting for the others. Lord and dear sweet Lady, she never could endure this, she couldn't. A knife hung at her belt still, he hadn't thought to take that off her, she hadn't dared to reach for it before. Not with his grip fierce on her, and him and other men in armour, she couldn't hope to hurt them but she could make them angry and that she did not want. But now, if this was what she faced, she ought to kill herself, she could do it now and spare herself such horror.
Men in plain shirts and hose came in, placed a wooden pallet on the floor, mattress and blankets over. So he'd taken some thought for comfort after all, the Norman, his own rather than hers she was sure. She glanced at him, surreptitiously. He'd taken his helmet off and placed it on one of the tables, pulled his gloves off to follow. Dark hair plastered down with sweat, dark eyes with a commanding gaze that flicked across the other men and ensured instant obedience. A man of importance here, that other man he'd spoken to must have power here too, sweet Heaven what had she run herself into. Should have let her brothers hang her...
He glanced at her, and she wilted before that commanding stare, she felt her knees give in obedience. He was used to being obeyed, he'd make sure of her compliance, he'd already done so. Her wrists ached, worse even than her face where her father had punched her as he called her a whore.
The Norman grinned, suddenly, a terrifying grin, all blood and broken teeth. Leofe backed away and reached for her knife.
He shook his head at her, then glanced at the men and said something. Leofe drew her knife, she could stab herself in the throat before they grabbed her, she must find nerve and strength enough for that. But her hand moved slowly, as if some great weight clung to it. And the men didn't grab, they just left the room and shut the door again.
The Norman held out his palms to her, empty. Then unstrapped his belt and placed it very carefully on the table, sword and knife and all. Held out his palms again.
Well, she hadn't imagined he was taking her here for a knife-fight. And he was unarmed now, she could -- no, she couldn't strike at him, that was a ridiculous idea, he wore a mailcoat that covered his chest and arms and reached to his knees. If he were asleep she might get close enough to stab him in the eye, but he wouldn't sleep for a while yet, no, she understood that well enough. He spoke again now, in that hated Norman tongue, it made her want to spit. But his tone was mild and low, not curt as it had been with the men, she could almost believe he was pleading rather than commanding. Which was absurd, of course, he could order her as he liked and force her to comply, no one would defend her.
He mimicked the sheathing of a knife. Oh yes, that would suit his purpose well. Anger flared up within her, dissolving the worst of the fear. She could well believe he'd rather not risk a scratch as he forced her. Cowards like him didn't like to get hurt themselves, no, she knew her father and her brothers well enough to recognise a bully when she saw one. They wanted to hurt, that was all, not get hurt in return.
Though that blood-filled mouth of his made her shiver. She wondered who had done that, and why.
He turned away with something like a shrug, busied himself with removing his mailcoat. He wore thick quilt underneath, Lord these Normans wrapped themselves well before venturing into the English countryside. She'd never thought to wonder what they wore in the safety of their own castles, she'd never seen one of them like this, she'd imagined -- if she'd considered the matter at all -- that they were made of iron. But they weren't, they were men like her own kind, skin and flesh just like those she knew. Or shirt and hose, at any rate, as she discovered now. She couldn't stop watching him, she knew he was undressing and she understood why, yet the fear had drifted away and the anger too. She stood spellbound, she'd never supposed a Norman could look so human and so small. He wasn't that much taller than her, on foot instead of horseback and without his wrapping of armour and sword.
He turned back towards her, unhurried, took one step and then two. It would have to be now. Leofe nerved herself to strike, then stabbed at her own throat.
He was on her like an arrow, so fast she could have sworn his boots never touched the floor. One hand closed on her wrist so hard she screamed and dropped the knife. He caught the hilt in his other hand, murmured some blood-spattered reproach, tossed the knife onto the table. Caught her other wrist as well, and held her, gentle now, and shook his head. He had a sleek-boned face, in which the dark eyes sat uneasily above a tilted nose, she thought he might be younger than she'd imagined. Six or seven years above herself, maybe. Not that it mattered, she'd lost her one chance of escape, he'd force her now and she couldn't fight him, he was far too strong.
But he didn't. He dropped her wrists, made a slight sound that might have been a sigh, gathered up the weapons and carried them out of the room, shouted something incomprehensible to other men. One of them heeded the order, stepped through and stood there with arms crossed, watching her. Just that. No move towards her, just that unrelenting stare.
Leofe turned to seek some other option. She couldn't kill herself with shelves and tables, not fast enough at least. The wall-slits were much too narrow for her to think of squeezing through.
She would have to wait until one of them came near her. Try to get his knife, if he kept it with him. Though they wouldn't, she thought in bitter despair, they'd make sure she never got close to a weapon.
If she could break one of those stools, she thought, pull off a leg and swing it -- but the man's stare bored through her. She wouldn't give him an excuse to tie her up, she didn't doubt they would eventually, if it amused them, but for now she had her hands free and that was something. She could sit and think, she was in no immediate danger. Maybe by the time it came to the point, she'd have a plan.
***
Curse the girl, Roland thought. All he'd done was ask her name. Though she hadn't understood a word he said, he realised that, he'd spoken a little mostly because he thought it might reassure her. Instead she'd tried to kill herself, and if he'd been a fraction slower she'd have succeeded too.
He'd have some work to do before she'd be grateful, that was certain. At the moment she'd rather take her countrymen than himself. What they'd been after was plain enough, he should have left her to them. But they'd spooked his horse, he liked taking some small revenge for that. And the girl would settle, once she saw that no one was about to molest her. He'd left a sharp word on that point, he trusted his own man.
It still shook him a little, that attempt of hers. He'd been expecting a strike against himself, he'd turned his back on her to give her the chance. Test her speed and resolution, see if she feared or hated him enough to kill, or if her first struggles had been the extent of her resistance. Instead she'd -- yes, it shook him. He'd got the knife off her easy enough, but there were iron nails to gash with and parchment to choke on, he couldn't leave her in there alone.
He'd tried a smile, too, though that hadn't gone over well. Probably wasn't much to look at, so soon after a meet. But he wasn't used to women reeling back in horror when he smiled at them. Children, well, he was no beauty at the
best of times. With broken nose and broken teeth, he made an unfavourable impression on little souls, unless they were so taken with his sword they didn't think to look further. But he'd got used to smiling at women and getting a pleasant response -- though granted, he'd never tried it on an English girl before. Maybe it counted as a threat, here. Still. She didn't have to flinch back as from a death-stroke. It needled him.
He put all thought of her aside as he saw horses and men tended, checked that his groom and squire were busy cleaning his gear, endured Henry's lengthy hectoring on the subject of brawling in the great hall. Guillaume had taken umbrage at something, it seemed, and three men lay dead.
"His shoulder troubles him," Roland said. "Broken. Tell your men to stand back."
"Tell yours to keep the peace," Henry snapped in return. "I didn't invite you here to slaughter my knights as well as my peasantry."
"So you heard about that." Roland had played down the deaths, he knew Henry's opinions on the proper respect due from guest to host, but it seemed the news had reached his brother regardless.
"I did," Henry said. "Though not from you. Geoffrey thought it would amuse me."
"And did it?"
"No. I am the law here, if there's killing to be done my own men will do it. You are not to trespass on my rights."
"They worried the horses," Roland said.
"You wanted the girl," Henry replied with grim distaste. "So Geoffrey claims. Well, you've got her. Keep her away from me."
"She's safe in your archive," Roland said.
"In my -- " Henry glared at him, but subsided after a moment's consideration. "It's as good a place as any, I suppose."
"I thought so." Private, which would suit him. Though she wasn't to be easily won. He'd sleep cold for the first few nights. After that, though -- he permitted a moment's remembrance of her supple body. She'd come round in the end. Or if she didn't, he'd take her along when he left and drop her where he found her. The Englishmen could take things from there, if that was what she preferred.
