Bound to the Warrior (Love Inspired Historical)

by Barbara Phinney

  “True. But we shared a trencher and a cup. Anyone who’d want me dead, but not her, would not use our food as a weapon. So either way, it could not be a Saxon wanting me dead or a Norman wanting her dead. Besides, others were sick also. Mayhap ’twas just a fever and her maid was mistaken.”

  Eudo studied his brother. “Whatever it was, be wary, brother. ’Tis a dangerous country in which we now live.”

  * * *

  Ediva’s strength returned as the day advanced. After she’d seen Adrien leave, she had returned to her solar, but there was too much to do to lie about. So she spent the day ensuring that the rushes on the main floor were changed and all floors swept. She also saw to the collection and drying of the small fruit now reaching their peak. The currants would be needed for both food and teas this coming winter. Such minor work, part and parcel of her duties, was the only way she could keep her mind focused. She would not allow it to so foolishly wander back to when she’d kissed Adrien with far more passion than she believed she possessed.

  Aye, she’d never felt such thrill. For the span of the kiss, the keep, nay, the whole of England, faded away. There was nothing save her and Adrien.

  He’d promised he’d stay safe and she’d promised she’d eat only as he prescribed. Feeling hungry and unable to find Margaret, she headed for the kitchen for a small morsel to ease the pangs. The noon meal for her had been light and her stomach now complained.

  She found Geoffrey in the larder, recording the provisions with the cook.

  “Milady!”

  She held up her hand. “I’m only here for a bite of bread.”

  “I will see to it immediately. I’m finished here, anyway. Will you take it in the hall?”

  “Nay. My solar.”

  “As you wish, milady. ’Twould be a good time to rest, too. Lord Adrien wants you to eat and work lightly and has ordered me to ensure it.”

  She smiled. As if Geoffrey could ensure that. But the thought that Adrien had informed the staff brought a smile to her face. “True. I’ll rest awhile after I eat.”

  Later, when she sank onto her bed, and into Adrien’s pillow, she inhaled deeply, filling her head with his scent of orris root and cedar. She’d love to simply lie there, but too soon she must oversee the evening meal.

  And it must be a hearty one. If Adrien didn’t return with her tenants, she would be forced to send the soldiers to the fields with sickles. The early grains were ready and she needed to confirm that the best seeds would be saved for planting next year. The harvest could start tomorrow if the weather held, though it was cloudy out. She may as well get up.

  The corridor beyond her solar was dark, the torch head barely a glow of embers still stuck to the shaft and any light from the small slit window was dull and gray. She stepped onto the stairs and found it darker still. She felt the rounded wall for the torch and found its hilt. A tender, dabbing touch told her that the wick was still warm.

  The torches were to remain lit. Her chandler would hear of this and so would Geoffrey. With careful steps, she made her way down the flight, keeping her hands on the walls and feeling the next stair with the toe of her shoe.

  Before she stepped onto the landing that would take her to the main floor, a growl sounded. She froze.

  A dog? There were several about the keep, and she always ordered the servants to shoo them out. This one must have slipped in.

  “Go! Out!” she told it sharply, but the animal did not move. In the dim light reaching her from the distant hall, she could see shiny white teeth as the animal curled its lip at her. ’Twas odd. She recognized this mongrel—but it was usually shy, even timid around the feral cats. She rarely offered it food but allowed the children to do so occasionally. It had never shown such ill temper.

  She glanced beyond, hoping to catch a servant wandering past, but the keep was unusually quiet. Deep in the kitchen, she could hear the sounds of the evening meal being prepared, and down the corridor that led to the main door, she caught noises of men talking excitedly. Someone or something had diverted their attention. A distant tinkling of percussion instruments suggested a traveling minstrel troupe had arrived.

  Then the lilting music of flutes drifted in. Indeed, a minstrel troupe had arrived. She looked back at the dog. His ruff was up and his hackles looked like a hedgehog’s back. She didn’t want to call out for help and look foolish. She’d simply brush past...

  But someone grabbed her first.

  * * *

  Adrien spent the evening meeting with his tenants and learning how highly the townspeople thought of Eudo. He was a fair leader, Adrien was told, even taking on the role of mediator in several small quarrels. The Norman presence didn’t seem to bother the townspeople, who, because of their proximity to the North Sea, had seen many foreigners. Dutch and Danes and even Jews communed in relative peace, with only minor complaints against each other, mediated equitably by Eudo.

  He’d taken to the role of constable like a duck to water. Adrien felt his pride swell at his younger brother, even though the man was oft a nuisance. More important, the townsfolk no longer saw him as an enemy. Adrien only wished others were as accepting, like those who hid in the forest and may have ambushed the missing messenger.

  Satisfied that the tenants had been treated well, Adrien returned to the house that Eudo rented. ’Twas large and clean, with a good pallet for him to sleep on, complete with fine wool blankets and a down pillow. After the day in the saddle and walking all over the walled town, he longed to retire.

  But his mind returned to Ediva. What was she doing? Had she already retired? He knew that once he was out of sight, she’d set about her work as though her illness had never happened, but Adrien knew fatigue would catch up with her.

  Was she well?

  He lay down, but his eyes refused to close. His lovely wife’s pale, golden hair, her beautiful smile and gentle grace lingered in front of his mind’s eye.

  He’d told her that the memory of her was good enough to take into battle. But oddly, battle was losing its appeal. Nay, that couldn’t be so. He would fight for his king and be the first in line to volunteer—

  Why would the mind’s eye recall Ediva instead of some patriotic action? Shouldn’t it recall the stirring of a coming battle, like that at Senlac in Hastings?

  He shifted restlessly on his pallet. Leagues away, Ediva lay in her bed, and the idea that someone had wanted to hurt her ate at him. He should never have come here. But the matter of the missing money and the need for the men to return had to be dealt with.

  Still, Ediva was in danger as long as the person who poisoned her remained at large.

  As he punched his pillow, he said a prayer for her safety and a vow that he would return to her as soon as possible.

  * * *

  Ediva fought off her attacker, but her cyrtel twisted fiercely, trapping her legs. She reached back to grab the man’s hair but found nothing but a wrap of cloth about the head.

  He held her fast, his arm nearly choking her. She tried to scream, but he pulled tighter still. When she was spent, he began to drag her up the stair. Her heels pounded on the stone treads until pain forced her to stumble with him.

  At the corridor to her solar, he stopped, jerked her close and hissed into her ear. His breath was sour, his voice oddly pitched. “Listen, milady. Listen well to what I say to you.”

  She stilled.

  “I know you and Lord Adrien are not lovers, so ’twill not be hard for you to do as I say. If you don’t, I will ruin all you hold dear.” His voice broke like a boy coming into manhood.

  “What is it that you want me to do?” she gasped out.

  “You will kill your husband.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ediva gasped. “Nay! I’m no murderer!”

  He wrenched her closer. “If you don’t, I’ll kill one tenant at a time until none are left in Little Dunmow.”

  “’Tis a sin to murder!”

  A laugh of mockery followed. “And you are so very piou
s? I know your Godless heart. You’ve murdered Ganute many times in your dreams. ’Tis the same.”

  Tears stung her eyes. She’d wanted Ganute dead so many times. ’Twas the same and she hated the truth. He squeezed his arm. She stiffened as the chokehold tightened.

  “Listen!” Spittle sprayed across her cheek. His accent was Saxon but the voice sounded cracked and rough. And that smell about him... “Kill the Norman you married. I don’t care how. You have enough herbs in your larder to use against him. Should you choose not to, I’ll kill your tenants. And should you tell anyone, I’ll kill more of your tenants.”

  “Nay, you cannot kill your own countrymen!”

  “We must all sacrifice to purge our lands of these Normans.”

  She clawed at his arms and pulled in vain. “Do it yourself, you filthy cur.”

  “I cannot, for Adrien only lets you close to him.” He pressed his face to hers. “So ’tis your decision, my lady. Choose Adrien or your tenants. You should be thankful I am not killing you for your betrayal.”

  “What betrayal?” she rasped out as he shifted position slightly.

  “You married a Norman. You threw yourself at William’s feet to keep your land. You are the most despicable of the lot.”

  She gritted her teeth. Most of her tenants wouldn’t know she’d had no voice in the decision of marriage. They didn’t realize that King William would have razed the land here and killed all in Dunmow had she refused to wed. Did they really hate her for her perceived cowardice?

  “I’ll have you hung on a tree for this!” As she spit out the words, her assailant shoved her to the cold steps. She coughed. It hurt to move, but she strained to turn around. All she saw for her painful efforts was a shadow fleeing down the remaining stairs.

  She sagged onto the wooden planks of the upper floor, panting to catch her breath. Beyond, the revelry continued, the sounds of music rising from the traveling minstrels.

  She’d been attacked in her own keep! Told to kill Adrien or others would die!

  Ediva struggled to stand, then staggered back into her solar. Thankfully it was empty. Should her maid have heard the ruckus and come to her rescue, Ediva feared the woman would have had her neck snapped. The vile cur that had attacked her was that strong—and that ruthless. No doubt he would follow through on his threats.

  She sank onto her chair by her table. Shaking, she lifted up her polished silver glass and peered in it. With her other hand, she undid her tunic’s high top and gasped. Welts and bruises were beginning to form.

  Memories of Ganute’s brutality washed over her. He’d been dead nearly a year and the image of him leering as he leaned over her still swamped her mind.

  Nay, the man was dead. She had been attacked and threatened by another equally strong.

  She smacked down her looking glass. She would not bow to this threat as she had to Ganute’s for so long. She’d vowed to protect her people, and ’twas not Adrien’s fault he was given this keep. Nay, both meant too much to her to bend to this cur.

  * * *

  Astride his stallion, Adrien trotted into the bailey three days after he left. He’d planned to stay in Colchester for the week but ached to see Ediva too much.

  Most of the children were gathered around a brightly garbed man and it took Adrien a moment to realize the fellow was a traveling minstrel. How long had this troupe been here? They showed no signs of packing and leaving.

  Adrien searched the bailey for Ediva in vain. Calling to Harry, who was absorbed in the revelry, he dismounted. The squire, his attention still on the minstrel, hurried over.

  “Pay heed to your duties, boy,” Adrien snapped at him. “You’ll make a poor knight if you’re so easily distracted.”

  “Nay,” he answered brightly in the French Adrien was still teaching him. “I want to be a minstrel. That man can play the lute and pipes and do magic!”

  “Fool boy, you can’t even carry a tune! And the magic is merely sleight of hand. Beware of that, if you value your soul.”

  Harry took the reins, his grin still wide. “Aye, sir. But with you to keep me well-behaved, I’m going to heaven when my duty as a knight is done.”

  “’Tis not good behavior that gets you there, boy. God sees the heart, so keep yours pure.” Adrien shook his head. He should send the boy to Colchester for Eudo to deal with him. They were apples from the same tree. “Where’s your mistress?”

  “I haven’t seen Milady today. But her maid’s in the kitchen.”

  Expecting to find Margaret preparing the simple meal for Ediva as he’d ordered, he was surprised to find her helping with all the meal preparations. The smells of roast goose and onion pies made with rich butters wrapped themselves around his senses. He was hungry, but his hunger to see Ediva loomed far greater than his need for food.

  The maid spied him and quickly wiped her hands before hurrying over to him.

  “Where is your mistress?”

  “She’s abed, my lord. She sent me down here to help with the main meal.”

  “Is she ill again?”

  She glanced away. “She didn’t seem so, though her voice was hoarse.”

  Adrien strode out of the kitchen. He spied Geoffrey busy with several servants as they arranged the tables for the troupe. He looked surprised. “My lord! Welcome home! Some minstrels arrived and Lady Ediva asked them to stay, but I fear she won’t enjoy them. Milady said she was tired.”

  Berating himself for assuming she’d mend as quickly as he might, Adrien strode past the hall and bolted up the stairs. Fresh torches lit the way as he hurried along the corridor to the solar.

  Ediva lay on her bed, her back to him. He skidded to a stop. Mayhap he should not have stormed in, but concern wracked him so. He drew back the half-open curtain, expecting her to be asleep.

  She turned and looked at him, and his heart went cold, she looked so pale. “You’re still sick!”

  “Good day to you, too, sir!” She smiled her welcome weakly. “I’m surprised to see you so soon. I’m not sick, just tired.”

  Despite the warmth in the room, she’d wound her hair around her neck as if she felt a chill. The furs were also pulled up.

  “I’ll order some warm broth.”

  “Nay!” Her hand shot out as he turned. When she relaxed her grip, she smiled ever so slightly. “Stay with me, Adrien.” She hesitated before continuing. “I’ve missed you.”

  He smiled. “I’ve only been gone three days.”

  “’Tis good to see you home safe. The roads are dangerous.”

  Adrien thought back to the young soldier who’d been dispatched with the answer he’d sought. That soldier was still missing and others had been sent to find him.

  “How was your visit?” Ediva whispered. “Will the men be returning soon?”

  Was that the only reason why she missed him? Disappointment sank into his heart. “Aye, they will. And I learned Eudo’s explanation on the money.” He paused. “But first, Ediva, you need to be cared for.”

  The door behind them opened and Ediva’s maid and with one of the scullery girls padded in. Having anticipated their patrons’ needs, two bowls of steaming broth sat on a tray, trailing their savory scent behind them. Despite his concern for Ediva, Adrien inhaled deeply. He’d not eaten all day.

  Never mind, he told himself sharply. He had more pressing matters than to fill his belly. He looked back at Ediva. She’d sat up, keeping her throat well wrapped in that glorious hair of hers. But she was still not looking him in the eye. Behind him, the women worked in silence. Ediva needed to convalesce and she’d object to any fussing he’d do. So, with his heart heavy, he stood and bowed to her. “I’ll take my leave, then. We’ll talk when you have healed.”

  * * *

  Ediva sighed a mix of disappointment and gratitude as she unwound her hot hair. She hadn’t wanted Adrien to leave, and she needed to know what Eudo had said. Yet, she couldn’t have sat in bed with the furs and her thick hair hiding the bruises from her husband’s eyes much lo
nger.

  Margaret shooed away the other girl and served the broth. “I have a salve for those welts.” She shook her head. “Milady, I beg of you to tell Lord Adrien what has happened! You won’t confide in me, but consider your husband.”

  “Nay!” What had that man said? More people would die should she mention his threat? Who would he choose first? Margaret who fussed over her? As much as Margaret could annoy Ediva with her hovering, there was a mutual caring. All through the brutality she’d endured with Ganute, the woman had done her duty faithfully, helping Ediva as best she could.

  No, Ediva couldn’t bear it if Margaret was killed. She was terrified that the man would take those closest to her to sink the dagger of his threat more deeply. Who was this evil cur?

  Thankfully, the next day, the welts had faded somewhat and her throat soothed enough for her to speak without hoarseness. She needed to see Adrien, to assure herself that all was well with Eudo. And that Adrien had not been chosen, should her attacker decide to kill her husband himself. ’Twas a foolish fear, because her attacker had said that he could not get close enough to Adrien to do him harm—yet her heart would not rest easy until she saw her husband again.

  She found Adrien in his room, one of the keep’s maps spread across his table. He looked up when she entered, and he slowly straightened.

  Relief sluiced through her. He was safe. And she found she no longer cared about the missing money.

  Today, Adrien’s tunic was a light brown, trimmed with a thin line of embroidery. Her breath caught in her throat. Was this not the one he’d worn when they’d first met, which turned out to be his wedding tunic? She looked down at her own cyrtel. And smiled. ’Twas the one she’d worn that fateful day. How had such a coincidence come about?

  He walked around the table and took her hands. “I’m glad to see you up and well.”

  “Aye. The herbs and broth did wonders for me.”

  “And my wife has come to see me for what reason?” His smile widened, and his eyes shone. “Or was it just to say hello?”