Bound to the Warrior (Love Inspired Historical)

by Barbara Phinney

  With a sigh, he grimaced. He didn’t have time for this. Daylight was dwindling, and he wanted to reach the inn before dark. If she was some fearful maid, he’d deal with it when they arrived at the keep.

  “Don’t fret, Ediva. ’Tis not my intent to incite fear. If you like, I will give you your privacy. You may take the room at the inn for yourself. But we will need to discuss this when we arrive at our home. Now, allow me to help you mount the mare.”

  The stable boy led the horse over and stilled the huge dam beside Ediva. She tilted her head up to look from the huge mare’s legs to the saddle. She gathered her cloak tight about her neck and dropped her jaw.

  He shook his head. “We don’t have to take this mount if you don’t want to.” He turned to the boy holding the reins. “Get her something smaller.”

  “Sir, she’s a gift from the king. This mare was meant for the new queen’s stables.”

  And a good gift she was, too, but Adrien shook his head. “If my wife cannot ride her, I must decline.”

  A small hand touched his arm and he looked down at Ediva. “Nay, my lord. William may be a brutal king with blood on his hands, but his gift is of good value. Though I fear I cannot ride her home, we should bring her with us all the same.”

  Adrien turned to the boy, thankful for Ediva’s logic. “Tie her lead to my mount, then.” He swiftly mounted his own horse and leaned down to the unsure Ediva, extending his arm.

  She took it, and after he’d secured a good grip on her, he swung her up onto his lap. When she’d settled as best she could atop him, he spoke to the stable boy, ordering him to tell his squire to deliver his mail to Dunmow Keep immediately.

  Then he rode out of the stable. After they traveled along the street that lined the river and invited the cool wind on their faces, he spoke.

  “My thanks, Ediva, for accepting the horse. The mare is too fine a gift to be ignored. It is a mark of favor from our king, and ’twould be considered ungracious to refuse.”

  Her answer was as cold as the dying day. “I care nothing for that.”

  “Then why accept his gift?”

  “As you say, she’s a fine horse. And the king does have a claim on my gratitude, though it has nothing to do with the horse.”

  Her sideways fealty to William made no sense, but he felt it related back to her other cryptic remark. “How has King William earned your gratitude?”

  Ediva didn’t answer, and as Adrien held her tight about her waist and the horses trotted along through the ever-thinning sprawl of huts, he pondered her puzzling words but refused to ask the question again.

  They said nothing more until they reached the inn at the edge of London town, barely seen in the dwindling light of day.

  Chapter Three

  They arrived at Dunmow Keep late in the afternoon. Two quiet days had passed since they’d left London. Although they’d ridden only a few hours each day and stopped for more than adequate rests, Ediva’s body throbbed with pain. She’d barely been able to stand at the last stop they’d made.

  But at least Adrien had not forced her to keep the same punishing pace she’d endured to London. Nay, he had not shown himself to be cruel...yet.

  She’d never considered the sight of Dunmow to be welcoming. Ganute had been proud of it, for the large, round tower was a rare stone keep. Imposing. A scar on the landscape, really, but today Ediva was glad to see it again after all she’d endured. Too much time on a horse...discovering she’d lost her land...forced into marriage. Aye, seeing Dunmow felt almost comforting.

  The bailey below had been enclosed with a thick battlement just after she’d married, and as they rode toward it, she caught sight of the rising motte and its early spring garden.

  “Your new property, my lord,” she said close to his face. Gone was all embarrassment. They’d spent too long on one horse.

  “This is it?” Adrien asked with awe in his voice.

  “Aye. ’Tis Dunmow Keep. The village is Little Dunmow. There used to be a timber wall surrounding the huts, but one winter was deep and many stole the posts for firewood. Ganute refused to rebuild it.”

  Adrien’s gaze swept across the village, but soon it returned to the huge keep. “’Tis made of stone! When was it built?”

  “Ganute’s father built it when King Edward was crowned.”

  “In commemoration?”

  She shrugged. “Most likely to curry favor.”

  “But we passed no quarries. There are mostly fens and swamps here.”

  “The stone came from the west.” She studied the keep with a critical eye. “They call it limestone and say ’tis easy to cut but hardens over time. I like the color. ’Twas the one thing I liked about it when I first arrived. Only when I was widowed did it begin to feel like home.”

  Adrien shot her a questioning frown, but she refused to explain herself. Someone from the sheep-filled village ran toward the main gate and heaved it open, allowing Adrien to ride into the bailey with the big mare in tow. There, Ediva slipped free of his arms and dropped into a young squire’s grip. Oh, but she ached! And her legs could barely hold her. How was she ever going to climb the steps to her solar?

  She looked around. Geoffrey, the steward, had ordered the yard cleaned. Mayhap that boy who Adrien had constantly sent ahead had warned the man that his new lord was on the way and her steward thought it wise to put forth a good first impression.

  She mentally shook her head. Shortly after Hastings, Geoffrey had voiced his dislike of Norman rule, as had the chaplain. Tidying up wouldn’t have been done to impress a man who, in Geoffrey’s eyes, should not even be here at all.

  “My lady! You’re home!” her steward called as he exited the keep and trotted down the stone steps. “We’ve just heard the news of your marri—”

  He stopped as Adrien dismounted.

  Her new husband had come without the fanfare of troops, yet didn’t appear to miss them, either. He’d ridden with great confidence, as if daring any thief to ambush them.

  None had taken the offer.

  Standing akimbo, he faced the young steward. “I am your new lord. You will address me, not Lady Ediva.”

  A crowd had begun to gather. And with Geoffrey looking stubbornly at Adrien, Ediva sighed. “I will handle my staff, Adrien.” All she wanted was a bath and a rest, but she should nip in the bud any conflict that might arise with Adrien’s arrival.

  He glared at her. “They are my staff now and are subjects of the new king.”

  Should she allow him to prove his worth? He was hardly a nobleman—merely a knight lucky enough to fight on the winning side. He may be unfit to lead these people, despite the strength that flowed from him so easily. But how would Adrien respond if he received disrespect? He’d treated her far better than she’d expected thus far. These two nights since their wedding he had ordered her a private room and slept outside her door, a far cry from what Ganute would have done.

  Yet he was still Norman, and his punishment might be as cruel as the rumors about them suggested. If that were so, her people would suffer.

  She could not allow that. Now, as always, it was her place to stand between her husband and the people under her protection he might see fit to harm.

  She set her hand against his hard chest only to remove it quickly, remembering with embarrassment its firmness on her cheek when she’d dozed late yesterday. “My lord, allow me. ’Tis all I have ever trained for. We both need rest and food and a change of clothes. Allow me to arrange that.”

  He looked down at her coolly. “And you have clothes for me?”

  She thought a moment. A big part of her was fighting the whole idea of being the dutiful wife. He was a Norman stealing her land, after all.

  But she had no desire to incite his or the king’s anger. Who knew what would happen then? ’Twas rumored that ten Saxon men would be killed should one Norman be injured. Nay, ’twas best to keep the peace. “I have some clothes from Ganute’s younger days, when he was far slimmer. They are hardly your s
tyle, nor do they have your length, but with a few stitches they will do until yours arrive.”

  Adrien handed the reins of his horse to the shy, young man, Rypan—who, Ediva noted, watched with huge eyes. “Treat these mounts well, or you’ll be treated as you’ve done to them,” he told him in heavily accented English. The boy nodded, most likely understanding only the fierce tone.

  Adrien glanced suspiciously around, and his mere size caused several maids and men to step back. Geoffrey stood his ground.

  Ediva leaned close to Adrien and spoke tightly in quiet French. “These people have lost family at Hastings. I doubt any have seen a Norman before, except the troops that marched through to inform us of our new king. Some of those men were very brutal. Be wise, lest you find yourself wondering if your next meal has been poisoned.”

  She tempered her words with weariness. She’d already buried one husband and after this frightful trip, was reluctant to bury another. Even if she could escape the fury of the king should Adrien die, new widowhood would risk Ganute’s cousin, Olin, descending upon her with foolish airs of his wrongful claim on Dunmow Keep.

  Adrien drilled her with a penetrating look. “Mayhap I will have you taste my food first. You don’t want me here any more than they do.”

  She answered him with a heavily burdened sigh. Of course, he would show his control over the keep she’d vowed to protect. But at this moment, she couldn’t care less. “Such a delightful way to start a marriage,” she muttered. “I’m sure you will want to inspect your new holdings. Go ahead. I plan to have a bath and a meal and a sleep. And if you feel the need for me to taste your food, wake me. For I really do not care.” She lumbered stiff-kneed up the motte and into the keep.

  Adrien confirmed to himself his horses were being cared for before ordering a young, brash-looking boy to take him to Ediva. He, too, wanted food and a bath and a good sleep before he inspected his new home, but those must wait. He would not have his wife ordering him around in front of his new staff and he planned to tell her so.

  The boy took him up the stairs to the top floor, then down a corridor that was rounded like the tower’s outer wall. The door at the end led to Ediva’s solar, and when Adrien threw it open, he found Ediva sitting with her steward by her side while a maid dug through a nearby trunk of clothes. The curtains that usually closed off the bed were pulled back and a light breeze rolled through the room by way of two narrow windows. The private solar was bright. A whitewash lightened the curved walls, and pushed to one side was a large, round brazier with an ornate cover.

  Ediva was tossing clothes into Geoffrey’s open arms. Another young woman sat at a table, sewing feverishly. His new wife didn’t look up from her task, even when his gaze finally lit on her. “I’ve found some things for you,” she said.

  Geoffrey held a mix of fine linens and sturdy wools. As best as Adrien could tell, all items were old-fashioned and of Saxon design. The leather thongs looked stiff and useless, but he’d find replacements for them easily enough.

  “Thank you.”

  She said no more. The girl on her knees pulled out a piece of cloth, one that snagged Ediva’s attention enough for her to fall to her own knees and grab it. The girl started back in surprise. Immediately, Ediva stuffed the linen back deep into the trunk again. A burgeoning silence swelled in the room.

  No one moved.

  Curious, Adrien strode up to peer into the chest. A tail of the material stuck out a moment before she shoved it deeper in. The cloth was pale blue in color, as lovely as Ediva’s brilliant eyes. Her hand lay on the other clothes, shaking ever so slightly. Adrien crouched and looked into her face. Her eyes were closed.

  “Ediva?”

  She swiped her hand over her cheek and opened her eyes. Glaring at the brash boy who’d accompanied Adrien, she snapped, “Harry, why are you still here?”

  Harry looked down at his feet. “I came in with my new lord.”

  “Well, you can leave now.” She twisted to speak to the woman sewing. “Margaret, I don’t need half of Dunmow Keep traipsing through my solar.”

  “Ediva?”

  She turned her attention to Adrien, her expression cool as the late winter rain that had fallen that morning.

  “Harry will be your squire,” she carried on in English, still on her knees. “If you need me, he will know where to find me.”

  “I have my own squire.”

  “Harry has some knowledge of French and a good ear for learning. Use him as much as possible.” Her voice was steady, but her hands still trembled and though she looked toward his face she would not meet his eye.

  Irritated, he stood and folded his arms. “I will decide the staff, Ediva.”

  “You know nothing of the staff here. This is my keep, Lord Adrien, and as its lady, I make such decisions.”

  With that, she slammed the lid of the trunk down. All the servants jumped.

  Enough, Adrien decided as he threw open the trunk lid. Whatever was in this thing had shaken Ediva more than anything he’d seen her encounter, including the king’s command to wed. Retrieving the blue garment she’d hidden, he discovered it was a woman’s shift.

  Holding it up with both hands, he drew in a sharp breath. There were long, violent slashes in it, and splattered about them were brownish stains.

  Blood. He’d been a soldier long enough to recognize the unwashed stains. ’Twas a sleeping shirt of good quality, and most likely hers. What had happened? “Is this yours, Ediva?”

  She snatched it back and thrust it into the arms of the girl beside her. “Never mind. Turn this into rags, girl.” Immediately after, she ordered the servants to leave.

  After the servants had filed out and the door shut firmly behind them, Adrien said, “That’s blood. What happened?”

  Her chin had wrinkled. Just as he thought she wouldn’t answer, she said, “Ganute’s departure gift to himself.”

  Adrien fought for words, but nothing decent surfaced. Her cheeks pink, Ediva returned to her seat. “He...surprised me, ’tis all.”

  Was that all it was? Nay. From her expression, there was more. He paused, also hating how he couldn’t seem to form a sentence or even find the right words to say. “You...had been married for some time, surely. You are...old.”

  Silence followed, with a sudden tension Adrien had felt only before battle. All he’d meant to say was she was old enough to know what some men want. Obviously, his English needed work.

  Unless the departure gift was...

  His blood ran cold.

  Slowly standing, Ediva turned to him. “Old? Old!” The word bounced around the quiet room like an angry bee in a clay pot. “Am I a battered pan into which you slop bones and broth for your sup?”

  She wiped her eyes furiously. “I am many things, my lord, but I can tell you with much certainty, that I am not old!”

  Snatching up her hem, she limped past him and threw open the heavy oak door with the ease of a man twice her size. As it slammed against the wall, she did her best to stalk from her solar with as much dignity as her bruised and aching body would allow.

  Standing there, Adrien felt a pair of eyes lingering on him. He found Harry, the young whelp Ediva had assigned as his squire, peeking into the solar. The boy barely reached his elbow and was as clumsy as a half-grown pup, but he lifted his brows and shook his head like a wise old man.

  “What’s your problem, boy?”

  The boy’s French was horrible, but he understood. “Milady don’t like to be called old. Even m’maw and my sisters don’t like being called old.”

  Adrien scowled at him. The boy colored, appropriately so, in Adrien’s mind. Harry quickly turned away, but as he did, Adrien caught his arm. “What kind of man was her ladyship’s first husband?”

  The boy looked around him, as if to confirm they were alone. “I didn’t know him well, sir. But I remember seeing her ladyship in the kitchen garden after he left, tending herbs. All covered up.”

  “Of course she’d cover herself. She�
�s a modest woman. And what do you mean, tending herbs? The lady of the keep does not garden, boy.” Did this child think he could lie to his master?

  “She likes to tend the herbs, she says. M’maw says she needs the peace.”

  “She needs— Why?”

  “M’maw said his lordship had his way before he left. She said that his lordship didn’t deserve her.”

  Adrien’s stomach turned as his suspicions deepened. Why hadn’t he seen the signs before? She’d practically told him that the only good that came out of Hastings was her husband’s death. And the bloodstains told their own tale of a brutal man.

  And here he had been, bullying her further.

  Father in Heaven, I have sinned against You and against Ediva. My ways are of a soldier, not of a husband. Help her to understand me. And for me to understand her.

  He strode out to find Ediva and confirm the truth from her. But, as he trotted down the curved stairwell, he reminded himself that she had her right to privacy.

  Nay, he argued back, he needed to know the truth behind her first marriage. He could help her. He could—

  Finding her in the herb garden that rolled down the short motte, Adrien paused at the open kitchen door. Behind him, water for her bath was being warmed over the hearth. Any words he’d formed in his mind dissolved instantly. She was seated at a wooden bench, staring at a patch of herbs barely out of the ground. The air still bore a crisp feel but promised spring. ’Twas the time of year that pledged new life, new growth—a new beginning. A new master for the keep who would not repeat the cruelties of the previous one.

  Ediva needed to know that she was safe in her own home. He’d made a silent promise to God during his nuptials that he would honor his wife as God would want him to. Ediva deserved that much. And she should not have to leave her own solar just to find a moment’s peace.

  She looked up at that moment, eyes hurt and hollow. He’d called her old, and he was wrong. She was broken, hurt by Ganute so much that Adrien actually regretted the man’s death. If Ganute was still alive, then Adrien would be able to teach him a lesson he would not soon forget.