Lord of My Heart

by Jo Beverley

  Aimery raised his sword awkwardly, and the man laughed. “We’ll have you dance with one foot, turd. And then we’ll play blindman’s buff with a real blind man . . .”

  As the guard continued his pointless taunting, for he must assume his victim understood little French, Aimery assessed the situation. None of these men could be allowed to live if the villagers were to survive and his identity was to be protected. But the villagers were numb with terror.

  Gyrth had killed his guard and taken his sword. The other two Normans were on him, and the sword wasn’t Gyrth’s best weapon. He’d need help.

  Aimery swung his sword wildly as an untrained peasant would. The guard howled with laughter. He sidestepped the swing and moved in contemptuously to slice off Aimery’s right arm. Aimery adjusted his grip and slammed his sword up against the other. While the guard was still stunned and his arm tingling numb, Aimery said, “God save you,” in crisp French and decapitated him.

  The head on the ground looked profoundly surprised.

  Aimery ran over to join the other fight. The guards were wary now, and Gyrth had been hard pressed to defend himself. Aimery could no longer appear unskilled, and within moments both men gave up and turned to flee.

  Aimery caught one and ran him through. The other guard turned and slashed at Gyrth, slicing into his leg and sending him to the ground.

  “Stop him!” Aimery yelled at the gaping peasants.

  A few moved to try, but as soon as the soldier turned with his sword they cowered back. Aimery raced after the man, but this one was lean and fleet. A glance back showed the peasants making for the woods like terrified animals and Gyrth on the ground trying to staunch the bleeding.

  With a curse Aimery threw his sword after the man like a spear. But a sword is not a throwing weapon, and it only caught the man on his mailed shoulder, spurring him on to greater speed. Aimery turned back to kneel by Gyrth.

  “I’m all right,” Gyrth gasped. “Go after him.”

  “Don’t be foolish.” Aimery slit strips off a guard’s clothing and bound the wound, grimacing at the filthy state of them. “My mother holds wounds bound with clean cloth heal better than those bound with dirty,” he remarked. “We’ll have to hope she’s wrong.”

  “Wounds heal or not as fate disposes.” Gyrth heaved himself up. “If I’d had an ax, that one wouldn’t have lived.” He looked up at Aimery. “He could write your death warrant.”

  “And yours.”

  “I’m a rebel anyway. Now so are you.”

  Aimery shook his head. “They were breaking the law. If my part in this slaughter becomes known, I’ll claim I was freeing myself from slavery.”

  “If your part comes out, it’ll all come out. That guard could recognize you if he bumps into Aimery de Gaillard. Then what?”

  Aimery shrugged and put an arm around Gyrth to take his weight.

  “I’ll be admiring your head on a pike one of these days,” said Gyrth angrily. “Go back to being an ordinary Norman, lad. Either that or join Hereward and throw the Bastard out.”

  “I’ve never been an ordinary Norman,” Aimery replied, “but I’ll never be a traitor to William either.”

  “Goddammit, lad!” Gyrth cried in exasperation. “Hereward and the Bastard’ll be fighting as to who gets first cut at you!”

  Aimery smiled. “You should meet my father. You have a lot in common. Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  Madeleine tried to put the encounter with Edwald the outlaw out of her mind. In view of the suffering among her people here at Baddersley, it was her duty to marry quickly and throw out Paul and Celia. In that decision her outlaw, her faery prince, was only a distraction.

  An overwhelming distraction, though, which had her standing idle in the middle of a busy day, and tossing restlessly in her bed at night. Nothing could discipline her dreams. Night after night she relived his touch on her bare skin, his hot mouth on hers, and woke feeling achingly empty.

  It was a great relief when her cousin Odo rode up to Baddersley. Perhaps he could take her mind off such foolishness.

  Odo de Pouissey was Paul’s son and Celia’s stepson, and so no blood relative of Madeleine’s, but he had spent a great deal of time at her home when she was a child, and she thought of him as a brother. He was tall and strong, dark-haired like his father, and of ruddy complexion. He was jovial unless crossed, and good company. His greatest fault was a fondness for ale and wine, but no one was indulging in excess in Baddersley these days.

  Odo was happy to spend his time with Madeleine, telling her stories of the conquest of England. She thought he was the hero rather too often for credibility, but they were good stories all the same. He also described the queen’s coronation, making much of his privileged place at court. Madeleine was distinctly envious and gathered up any scraps of information she could about eligible young men.

  “And who is highest in the king’s favor?” she asked one day as she set stitches to repair a shift. They were sitting outside the manor house in the sun.

  “His old cronies. Mortain, Fitz Osbern, Montgomery.”

  “But what of the younger men? There are many carving out great futures for themselves, are there not?”

  He cast her a suspicious look, and she realized he thought she was sneering at him, who didn’t seem to be carving out much. She kept her face bland.

  “De Varenne is well regarded,” he said sulkily, “and de Faix. Beaumont . . . and the de Gaillards, of course. The king fair dotes on them.”

  “It is often luck,” she soothed, “that brings a man to the king’s eye.”

  “Aye, that’s the truth. But what justice is there when he panders to the damn Saxons?”

  “There are English at court?” Madeleine asked, surprised. Even if the king was wooing them with marriages, she hadn’t expected them to be so kindly received.

  “The place fair crawls with them, smiling and bowing to get their lands back. There’s not one of them I’d trust.”

  “But it’s good they are accepting the king. Now we’ll have peace.”

  “How’s a man to get lands if there’s peace? If William returns their lands, what’s left for his loyal Normans? You’d best watch out, Mad,” he said spitefully. “One of these days that scum Hereward’ll bow the knee, and the king’ll give him back Baddersley.”

  Madeleine’s hands stilled. Baddersley was hers.

  Odo laughed. “That gets to you, I see. Mark my words. It could happen. He’s given Edwin of Mercia most of his land back. Edwin’s your overlord here now, do you know? How do you fancy making your allegiance to a damned Saxon? And William’s giving him his daughter.”

  “Agatha?”

  “So they say, and there are rumors the Lady Judith will be given to a Saxon cur, too. If you’re not careful, Mad, you’ll suffer the same fate.”

  Madeleine kept her eyes on her work. There was one Englishman she could bear. They could finish what they’d begun. A familiar aching warmth stirred inside her. “What are the English lords like?” she asked.

  “Too pretty, or too rough,” he said dismissively. “They wear their hair long, and many of them keep face hair, though they’re tending to shave it off to please the king.” He guffawed. “Look like shorn lambs. They dress as fancy as a lady and flaunt their gold when it should have gone as reward to their conquerors.”

  Madeleine sighed. She’d get no useful information from Odo on this subject. “You’ll get a rich reward in time,” she assured him.

  Odo reached over and seized her hand. “What of you, Madeleine? You’re a prize.”

  Madeleine hissed with annoyance. He’d made her prick her finger and put a bloodstain on her work. “I don’t care to be thought of as a prize of war,” she retorted.

  He smiled. “I don’t think of you like that. I’ve always been fond of you, Mad. You could do a lot worse than me for a husband.”

  Madeleine sighed. It had been clear that this was behind his visit, but she’d hoped to avoid a confrontation.<
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  She looked at him. He was young, healthy, and strong. He was familiar. She could do a lot worse, but she could do a lot better, too. Anyone who didn’t bring Paul and Celia along with him like the plague would be infinitely better. She took refuge in deceit. “The king will choose my husband, Odo.”

  “Will he? He has a lot on his mind with new rebellions popping up every week. You could languish into an old maid here, waiting.”

  “I expect to be summoned back to the queen very soon,” said Madeleine, truthfully enough. Matilda wanted her to be a childbirth attendant. But the babe was not due until August or September. Would she be left here until then?

  “Even if he does remember you,” said Odo craftily, “the king could use you to pay any number of debts, Mad. You could be wed to a toothless ancient, or a fuzz-cheeked boy. To a man whose taste runs to commoner women, or to one who’d enjoy hurting you. I wouldn’t want to see you end up like that, Mad. I’d be a loving husband.”

  “I’m sorry, Odo,” she said, trying to soften the refusal. “I must wait on the king’s pleasure.”

  She caught a flash of anger in his eyes, and her decision was reinforced. He reminded her unpleasantly of his father, who often took his fist to Celia. No, she didn’t want to marry Odo.

  The next day was Odo’s last, and his father called for a hunt for his son’s entertainment, and in the hope of supplementing the poor food available at Baddersley. Odo had recovered his good humor, and Madeleine was happy to slip back into sibling fondness. On the other hand she would be as glad to see him leave as she had been to see him arrive.

  It was a fine, sunny day, and as they rode out Madeleine saw that even neglect and unrest couldn’t steal the beauty of the English countryside. Once the people settled to new rule, this land would be rich, great, and good. And she would be a part of it, she and her descendants. “Ah, England.” She said it softly to herself, as if to a lover.

  Riders, huntsmen, and hounds gathered in an open meadow deep with a rainbow of flowers. Madeleine smiled and breathed the sweet air. England had a different flavor from Normandy. England was gentle, rich in the arts, and full of music and poetry. Even though she was still struggling with the language, she enjoyed the sagas and stories of love and loneliness, hope and pain.

  Normandy was harsher and rougher. Or perhaps, she thought, looking at her uncle, her cousin, and their men, it was just a harsher, rougher people. Now that the Norman lust for war had come to England, would it destroy Baddersley as it had destroyed Haute Vironge? Not if she could help it. Baddersley was hers.

  She pulled a leaf from a low-hanging branch and rubbed it between her fingers. The sap stained her skin, and the aroma rose like perfume to her nose. Her tree, her land, her deer, her people . . .

  All that was needed was a lord capable of holding the barony safe and making it prosper.

  Not Odo.

  But an English lord would be in tune with this land, she thought. Though Edwald had said he would not return, every time she was out in the countryside Madeleine looked for him, hoping he would appear again on silent, skillful feet . . .

  The hounds caught the scent of a deer and ran. The horn blew and the riders began the chase. Madeleine and Odo rode side by side, laughing for the pleasure of the hunt.

  “It’s heading over that hill!” shouted Odo. “This way. We can cut it off!”

  He swung his horse, and Madeleine followed as the rest of the riders took the hounds’ line. They galloped into a wood, heading toward the other side of the hill.

  And came up against a deep, fast-flowing stream.

  They both pulled up. The trees grew down close to the banks, and the chances of working their way along the edge of the water were poor.

  “Do you think we can ford the stream?” Madeleine asked, listening to the distant sounds of the hunt.

  “No, of course not.” Odo was looking at her strangely. Madeleine shivered with unease. It was surely just the dim coolness here among the trees. “Come on then.” She turned her mount. “Let’s go back around the hill and catch up.”

  His voice stopped her. “Hold on a moment. Mastery’s limping.” He swung off and raised a hoof for inspection. “Mad, can you come down and hold him?” called Odo, struggling with his sidling horse. “I think he’s picked up a thorn, but I can’t get a grip on it.”

  Madeleine swung out of her saddle with a sigh and went to help. She took Mastery’s reins, and the horse immediately calmed. After a moment she realized this was because Odo had stopped touching the beast. He came around the horse.

  “Odo, what are you—”

  He grabbed her.

  Her cry was smothered by his wet lips and stale breath. She kicked and twisted to frighteningly little effect. Fear and suffocation made her head swim, and her clawing hands found only the tangling cloth of his cloak.

  His lips released her, and she sucked in breath to scream, but he pushed her down on the hard ground, landing on top of her so that only a squeak emerged as pain shot out from her spine and hip and shoulders.

  Incredibly, he was grinning. “Come on, Mad, you panted after me as a girl.” One hand yanked her skirt up at the side. “Bet you had hot dreams of me in your cold little convent cell. Well, I’ll make your dreams come true.”

  She bucked. “Odo, no!”

  His grin just widened. Bile rose in Madeleine’s throat. Frantic, she twisted and kicked, but his massive body was like a log on top of her. His shoulder pressed on her face, making it difficult to breathe, never mind to scream.

  Panic choked her. If he dishonored her, the law called for castration, but the law hereabouts was Odo’s father. The alternative would be a hasty wedding. Once it was done, would the king interfere? “Blessed Mary, aid me. . .”

  His smile switched to an ugly scowl. “Don’t call on the saints,” he snarled, struggling to manage both her clothes and his without giving her a chance to move or scream. “It’s time you learned your . . . duty . . . stay still, curse you! Learned what a woman’s . . . for.” His writhing freed one of her hands. “Hell!”

  Madeleine wrenched out her small knife and stabbed him in the arm.

  “You little bitch!” He picked her up and slammed her back to the ground. The knife flew from her hand.

  He was back on top and her skirt was now up high. His weight was full on her chest as she gasped for every breath.

  “By the Grail, you need a lesson, Mad!” he exclaimed, redfaced. “When we’re wed . . .”

  Only half conscious, Madeleine felt a new wave of terror at the word. It brought a new burst of strength. She writhed, she shrieked. He pummeled and cursed.

  He stopped.

  His dead weight crushed her. Then it rolled away. Sobbing and gasping air into her burning lungs, Madeleine saw a peasant leering at her exposed body. He was stocky and grizzle-haired, with a beard and moustache which marked him as English. Muttering prayers to the Virgin and saints, Madeleine scrambled painfully to her feet, grabbed her pathetic little weapon, and hobbled back against a spreading oak.

  “Allez-vous en!” she gasped. Then, awkwardly, she tried English. “Go away.”

  “Don’t be afraid.”

  Madeleine started at the new voice and looked down to see another man by Odo’s body. It wasn’t surprising she’d missed him for he blended with the leafy earth, dressed as he was in mud-colored clothes. Even his head was wrapped with a dirty cloth that hung forward over his face.

  He stood and rocked Odo with a sandaled foot. “He is not dead,” he said in rough French. “Do you want him to be?”

  With a gasp, Madeleine recognized him. Then doubted. Then saw green eyes and was sure. She gave a little cry and hurled herself into his arms.

  He held her as she shuddered, choking back sobs. He was so strong and warm and safe. His hand gently comforted the back of her head. Then he pushed her away a little. “Shall I kill him for you?” He pulled out a long, vicious-looking knife.

  The other man said something sharply. She cou
ld tell he wanted to get out of the glade, which wasn’t surprising. They were English, and they’d attacked a Norman.

  “No,” she said quickly. She just wanted them safe. “Go. Please.”

  He shrugged and sheathed the knife. “You should leave this place, too.”

  She shook her head. “I’ll be all right. It was just that he took me by surprise. Please go. My uncle’s hunting here. He’ll kill you. Or worse.”

  He showed no urgency. His hand reached out to cradle her neck and humor glinted in his eyes. “I warned you about going about the country unescorted.”

  “He was my escort,” Madeleine said with a disgusted look at Odo.

  “Truly a wolf sent to guard sheep.” He drew her gently to him.

  Madeleine relished the comfort but regarded him in exasperation. Why didn’t he flee? “You said you would not be here again. It’s dangerous.”

  He traced her lips with a gentle finger and frowned. “You’re swollen. I should kill him.” Then, “I had business here. You did promise not to betray me.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I know. Shall I take the taste of him away?”

  Madeleine sighed. “Yes, please.”

  He tilted her chin and lowered his head.

  His friend said something. Then Madeleine heard it. Horses!

  “Déguerpissez!” she hissed urgently and pushed him. “Go. For Mary’s sake, go!”

  Still he hesitated. “Are you sure you’ll be safe?”

  She pushed harder, with all her strength. “Yes! Go!”

  Like wraiths they melted into the forest, and Madeleine was alone with her unconscious cousin. Her rubbery legs gave way, and she collapsed on the ground. She could feel bruises forming all over her body.

  Odo. Odo had tried to rape her, but if she accused him it was as likely to lead to a hasty wedding as anything. She started to shiver again. But overlaying pain and shock was joy. Her outlaw was back, and he had rescued her, and he was as wonderful as her dreams told her.

  “Madeleine! Odo!”