Lord of My Heart

by Jo Beverley

  Perhaps he had been honest when he said he didn’t like war. He was not heavily built, and he had the look of a man who spent more time in his clothes than his armor. Her father and brother would never have wasted money on needlework that could be spent on horse or sword. She certainly would not want to marry a man who couldn’t fight. On the other hand, the notion of being Lady of Baddersley in more than name was startling, but wondrous.

  “Are you saying that if I were to wed you, Lord Aimery, you would regard Baddersley as mine? I think perhaps you do wish to marry me, to tempt me so.”

  “The idea of having the power here is attractive to you?” he said with a distinct sneer, but Madeleine didn’t care.

  “Power.” She rolled the word around her mouth like a honey-cake, savoring it.

  Aimery realized he had made a serious mistake. More than one, a whole stream of them. How could this girl scramble his wits when he knew her for what she was? When she looked at him with those heavy-lidded brown eyes, a mist seemed to float over his reason.

  For weeks he’d carried a picture of a wicked harpy in his mind, but now it kept slipping away from him to be replaced by Dorothy, sweet and flustered by the river. He’d wanted her to know her position under English law, but now he saw his error. Here she was, true to form, gloating at the thought of being the absolute power at Baddersley, doubtless looking forward to wielding the whip with her own hands.

  Aimery had no time to pursue the matter for the king called on him for a song. As he bowed and went to fetch his lyre, Aimery knew sourly that the king was going to do his best to push the girl into choosing him, and he would not be able to refuse the “honor” a second time. He would have to apply himself to becoming unpalatable to the heiress without letting the king or his father suspect what he was doing.

  At the same time he must be sure not to give Madeleine de la Haute Vironge opportunity to recognize him or see his tattoo. She didn’t seem to recognize his voice speaking noble French, but it was hard to believe she wouldn’t one day look at him and see Edwald the outlaw.

  And there was always the danger of one of the local people letting something slip. Aldreda had already winked at him.

  All in all, he thought with a sigh, it was enough to send a man on a pilgrimage, a decades-long pilgrimage.

  By the time he returned, the rickety trestles had been dismantled, and men were wandering about draining replenished cups. The windows stood open, and the evening sun lit the room. Madeleine and the king still sat in the big chairs, and it occurred to Aimery that she was the only lady here. Her position was strange, and he suspected the king had manipulated it to be so. She was being given some say in her marriage, but her choice was being skillfully limited.

  William was set on the girl choosing Aimery, and he would use every trick to achieve his end. When William of Normandy determined on something, the chances of avoiding it were small indeed. On the other hand, the king had promised the girl a choice, and he would not go back on his word. That was the only hope.

  Aimery must direct her firmly toward Stephen de Faix. Stephen was indolent and self-indulgent, and he lacked a necessary streak of ruthlessness. But that, Aimery reminded himself, his wife would supply in full measure.

  As he tuned his instrument, Aimery ran quickly through a list of songs, wondering which would appeal least to his proposed bride. He discarded all the lyrical ones about the beauties of the seasons, and also the ones with a romantic tale. He knew they appealed to the ladies. How would she react to a stirring battle saga? She was obviously not softhearted, and so it might appeal.

  Nevertheless, it must be one of those, and so he chose the most harsh and bloodthirsty of the lot, an old Norse tale he had himself translated into French at William’s request. It told of Karldig who, trapped by his enemies, fought to the death with all his men around him. The Norse code dictated that no true man could outlive his leader, his ring-giver, and the followers of Karldig adhered to the code with high spirit. The story was told from the enemy’s point of view, for Karldig and all his men perished. The storyteller, though supposedly one of the enemy, gloried in the nobility of it all; he lauded each man sent to Valhalla, related with relish each wound, each lopped limb, each pierced eye.

  It was not one of Aimery’s favorite songs. As he expected, however, it pleased his male audience. Soon they were pounding on seat and floor in time with the rhythm of the piece, shouting out the most bloodthirsty parts. Chanting on automatically—for it was more a chant than a song, with Hereward’s old hall shaking to lusty voices, Aimery was suddenly overwhelmed by a memory of Senlac—the battle cries, the screams, the deafening crash of weapons, Harold falling, and his housecarls and family fighting grimly on to die beside him. The smell of blood, the spilled entrails, the severed limbs . . .

  He came to himself, and to the realization that the song was finished and yells of approval were shaking the rafters. He struggled to gather his wits. There were calls for more, but he shook his head and offered the instrument to Stephen.

  His rival took it with a grimace. “You devil. How am I to follow that?”

  “You have to please the demoiselle, not these bloodthirsty rogues. Sing her a pretty song.”

  Stephen cast a dubious look at the heiress, and Aimery followed it. She looked thoughtfully intent, and her eyes were rather bright. She did not look disgusted.

  Aimery slipped out into the peaceful evening before he could be summoned back to her side. A man should be glad of a strong, courageous wife, but he found the Baddersley heiress too bloodthirsty for his taste. He heard Stephen begin a melodious ballad. The man had a pleasant enough voice and a taste for Frankish music with more tune and less martial themes. What woman would turn down Stephen?

  Standing in the courtyard with his back to the new motte and keep, Aimery could almost imagine he was back at Baddersley in Hereward’s day. The hall would have been full of song then, too. Hereward liked the song of Karldig for he gloried in the old Norse ways. It would have been sung in English, though. Aimery looked at the countryside, at rolling fields stretching toward the forest—which was farther away now, he saw. Many trees had been felled to make the castle.

  The illusion was shattered, and he knew the past was gone forever. There were fewer fields under crops than there used to be, and fewer beasts growing fat. And the people, the people were very different. There were fewer of them, too, and they were pale and thin. Many had boils and other scabrous signs of poor feeding. They slid around furtively, eyes to the ground. There was no whistling and laughter as they worked, no children playing. Even the cats slunk through the shadows in search of rats.

  The work of Paul de Pouissey and his niece.

  It could be made good again. The thought slipped into his mind, and he shook it off.

  “Too much mead?”

  Aimery turned to face his father. “No. Just wondering how a prosperous manor could be brought to such a state.”

  Count Guy sat on a pile of logs by the unfinished palisade. “I keep forgetting you must know this place well.”

  “Not well. Hereward preferred Rolleston. But I came here once or twice.”

  “I’d think you’d relish a chance to put it in order.”

  “I have enough to do.”

  Aimery saw an irritated muscle twitch beside his father’s mouth and braced himself for a battle, but Count Guy merely said, “I’d give a lot to know what’s going on in that head of yours. The king’s patience isn’t infinite.”

  “He’s hardly likely to banish me for not wanting to wed Madeleine de la Haute Vironge.”

  Count Guy let out a long breath. “ ‘Aimery, something has scrambled your wits. I’d like to think it was love, but if it is, you’re not making sense. If you love another, tell the king. As he loves his queen, he’ll forgive that. Otherwise, consider carefully what you are about. William is your fond godfather. He is also duke, and now he’s king, and those things are paramount. If you do not serve him, you will lose his favor, and t
here will come a day when you will need it.”

  “I serve him.”

  “Look at me,” said Count Guy sternly, and Aimery met his father’s eyes. “You serve him as you see fit. That is not good enough. If the king wants your land, you give it. If he wants your right hand, you give him that, too. Or your life, or the lives of your sons. If he wants you to marry Madeleine de la Haute Vironge, you marry her. You do not ask why.”

  Father and son looked at each other in silence among birdsong and the distant lowing of cattle.

  “He has not asked it,” Aimery said at last.

  “Because if he did you would have to.”

  Aimery turned away and let out a long breath. “She may not want me.”

  “Then so be it. It is not for you to try to tip the balance.”

  Aimery’s lips twisted. “You don’t think the king has already done so? Stephen and Odo—”

  “That is his right.”

  Aimery brought his clenched fist up to his mouth, then relaxed it. “Neither of you know what you ask. There can be no happiness in this marriage.”

  “Then tell us what is going on.” After a moment Count Guy said, “Why do you keep doing that? Does it fester?”

  Aimery realized he was rubbing at the marks on the back of his right hand. “No, of course not.” He could hardy explain that the marks were his death warrant. He turned back to the hall, to escape his perceptive father. “If I’m to do my best to woo the demoiselle, I had best return.”

  “Just remember.” Count Guy’s voice stopped him. “No woman in her right mind would choose Stephen or Odo over you, and the king and I both know it.”

  When Lord Aimery did not return to her side, Madeleine found herself warily involved in dialogue with the king, even as she listened to another of her suitors sing, the one she was going to marry. He had a very pleasant voice, she acknowledged, and sang prettily about a lady and a lark.

  Why then did her mind keep returning to that other song with its violence and death? It had been something in the singer’s face. It had carried her into battle so that she could smell the blood and hear the screams.

  “I fear Lord Paul and his wife were not up to the management of this estate, demoiselle,” the king said.

  This was Madeleine’s opportunity to list all her grievances, and yet, with her uncle and aunt already out of favor, it seemed petty to do so. “It is not easy at such a time, and my aunt is not well.”

  “So I see. You did write to me, demoiselle,” the king pointed out, “and complain of mismanagement.”

  So he had received her letter. “My uncle is overly harsh, sire,” she admitted. “It is not a productive way to handle people . . .” Under the king’s eye she found herself adding, “He hanged a man for letting his pigs into a cornfield.”

  “Carelessness, certainly,” remarked the king with a raised brow, “but hardly a hanging matter.”

  Another silence grew. Madeleine found she could not look away from those pale blue eyes. In the end she was compelled to say something, anything. “He whipped children once when some of the families tried to escape . . .” Madeleine wondered why that particular event had broken out.

  “Children?” repeated the king, and there was that in his eyes which chilled her. Dry-mouthed, she nodded.

  One finger tapped the table in front of him as William asked quietly, “Do you mean youngsters? Twelve? Thirteen?”

  Madeleine watched the finger in preference to meeting his eyes. She shook her head and swallowed nervously. She knew now why William was feared. “I think the youngest was three, sire,” she whispered.

  “By the Blood!” William’s fist crashed down, making the boards jump. The whole hall fell silent. “Leo,” the king called. “You are a father of doubtless troublesome boys. For what cause would you whip a three-year-old?”

  Leo blinked. “Do you mean spank?”

  The king looked a question at Madeleine and she shook her head. “A whip,” she said quietly, and the memory returned, bringing anger. “Tied to a post,” she added more loudly.

  There was a murmur around the room and Leo de Vesin said, “For no cause under the sun, sire.”

  The king nodded and lapsed into silence. Slowly the hall filled with voices again, but many of the men watched the king, wondering where the reverberations of his silent rage would be felt.

  Madeleine waited in terror. Would the matter somehow be laid at her door?

  “And you, demoiselle?” asked the king suddenly, so that Madeleine jumped. “Has he ever whipped you?”

  “Sire, I have no wish—”

  “Answer me!” he snapped.

  “No, sire.”

  “Yet I see a bruise by your eye.”

  “That was Aunt Celia, sire. She . . . she is not well.”

  “I think perhaps I should apologize, demoiselle. I sent you here without much thought. As your father had left the barony in his relative’s hands, I assumed it would do well enough until I had time to look into matters. What do you want me to do with Lord Paul?”

  “Do, sire?”

  “I’d be within my rights to hang him for the mismanagement here.”

  “No, sire,” Madeleine said hastily. “Not that.”

  The king nodded and took a drink of ale. “That’s as well. I haven’t ordered any man killed since I came to England, and if I can I’ll keep it that way. I can tie him to his whipping post and strip his back.”

  “No, sire.” Bile rose in Madeleine’s throat at the thought of it. If she had her way, no one would ever be whipped at Baddersley again. “I just want him to leave.”

  The king shrugged. “You are too softhearted, but I suppose it comes of being convent-raised. I’ll send him back to your father’s place at Haute Vironge. That’s a ruin now, sad to say. I don’t suppose de Pouissey can make it any worse. If he crosses me there, I’ll banish him.” He looked at Madeleine and smiled. To her his expression was predatory. “Your situation here has been unfortunate, but things should be better soon. All you have to do is choose the right husband.”

  There was emphasis on the word “right.” “Will I really have my choice, sire?” Madeleine asked warily.

  “Have I not said so?” replied the king with a mild good humor she distrusted. “Even after receiving your petition for aid, I have been fair. I have brought you three able young men to choose from, all different, all proven in war and loyalty.”

  The words escaped her. “But that . . . but Lord Aimery is part Saxon!”

  The king fixed her with a look which was enough to make a bolder spirit crumple. “So am I,” he said. “Most Englishmen acknowledge my right to the crown, and in return I raise them as high as any man of Normandy. I have given my dear niece to a full-blooded Englishman as wife, and promised my eldest daughter to another. Do you rate yourself higher?”

  Madeleine was petrified, but before she could stammer out an apology his expression lightened. “But I have misunderstood you, of course. You have seen Lord Aimery’s advantage. His Mercian heritage means he is more able than most to handle the English, who are, after all, a funny lot.”

  That was one way to put it. Madeleine had a queasy feeling she knew now who was the “right husband.” It would never do, but she was not up to telling William that just yet. “I do find the people here hard to understand, sire,” she said, hoping to turn the subject.

  “Talk to Aimery. He understands their ways.”

  “Lord Stephen seems a pleasant man, sire,” said Madeleine desperately. “Does he come of a good family?”

  The king’s shrewd glance seemed to see right down to her stockings, but he followed the lead, “Aye. And he sings a pretty song. And Odo tells a funny joke now and then.” William’s look said, “Wriggle as you like, demoiselle, you will do as I wish in the end.”

  Marry that Saxon, with his long hair, his load of gold, and the bright green eyes which reminded her of a bitterly shattered dream . . .

  “What do you know of a man calling himself G
olden Hart?” the king suddenly asked.

  “Golden Hart?” The second after she had repeated the words, Madeleine was recalling them to her mind to hear the inflection, was wondering what expression had been on her face. Why did she care? If Edwald fell into the king’s hands and ended up blind or maimed, why should she care?

  “I understand from Lord Paul that he is the bane of the area,” the king prompted, watching her shrewdly. “He places all his troubles at that man’s door.”

  “My uncle has spoken of him,” said Madeleine carefully. “He does blame him for all our troubles, but I have no way of knowing the truth. People flee, and folk say Golden Hart has helped them, but they flee because conditions are so poor. Sometimes,” she said boldly, “I think Golden Hart is as much a myth as the faeries.”

  The king was watching her far too closely. “Perhaps you leap to conclusions about the faeries, Lady Madeleine. You must talk to Waltheof Siwardson about it. He is the grandson of a faery-bear.”

  Before she could respond to this extraordinary suggestion, the king continued, “As for Golden Hart, he’s real enough as such things go. His presence has been felt in other areas. You don’t agree with your uncle, then, that a sweep of the forest hereabouts would drive him from his lair? He told a tale of you and Odo being attacked by the man.”

  Madeleine hesitated. Now was the moment to reveal what she knew. “We were attacked by a few ruffian outlaws, sire,” she found herself saying. “If any of them were Golden Hart, he is not the magical character he is said to be.”

  What was wrong with her? She wanted him in chains, didn’t she?

  “They never are,” said the king dryly, considering her thoughtfully. “I’ll have the rogue in my hands one day and prove it.” He looked past her. “Ah, Aimery.”

  Madeleine became aware of a shadow over her lap and looked up to find Aimery de Gaillard looming over her.

  The king rose. “Pray keep the demoiselle company, Aimery. I must have a word with Lord Paul if he’s to be on his way tomorrow.”