by Jo Beverley
Madeleine curtsied and returned his greeting, then went to sit by him as the food was brought in. He drew her out to talk of the area, its land, and its people, but Madeleine sensed he had other concerns. Had one of the messengers brought bad news?
When silence threatened she said, “It is a shame work follows you everywhere, sire. Every man deserves an interlude.”
He laughed. “I chose my course. No man who wants an easy life should reach for a crown. But one of my messengers should set your mind at ease about that Golden Hart, Lady Madeleine. He is not lurking in your forest. He is raising the peasants of Warwickshire.”
So he wasn’t Aimery de Gaillard. She hadn’t realized until this moment how that suspicion had lurked in her. Madeleine felt like laughing at her own foolishness. How had she ever believed anything so unlikely as Edwald being a Norman knight in disguise?
“Is there to be another battle, sire?” she asked.
“No, no,” he reassured her. “It is a minor matter and my sheriff there will handle it. Hopefully we’ll have the rogue by the heels this time, though.”
“What will you do with him, sire?” she asked. Despite everything, she did not want to see Edwald punished.
“That depends. I don’t waste talents, Lady Madeleine. You don’t cut the throat of the fiery, rebellious horse. You tame it. If, that is, it will come to bridle. But,” said William jovially, “if your forest is free of the human hart, I hope you can offer us some of the animal kind to hunt.”
“Of course, sire. And boar, and many smaller animals. My men have been out in the forest for days, marking the deer trails, noting all the signs of venison.” The words “my men” rolled sweetly off her tongue. She looked around the hall with heightened pride.
“Excellent!” The king announced the entertainment to the men. They all cheered.
Madeleine breathed a sigh of relief. A day’s hunting would help feed the men. It would also leave her in peace to continue to put her hall to rights.
Then she found she was to accompany them.
“But, sire, I need to stay here and arrange for your greater comfort.”
“Your servants seem tolerably able, demoiselle,” he said implacably, “and you have little enough time to weigh your three choices. We cannot allow you to waste any of it.”
She should tell the king her choice was already made, but she quailed at the thought. He wanted her to marry de Gaillard, and braver people than she had put off telling William of Normandy something he didn’t want to hear. Perhaps, she thought desperately, something would come up to delay the decision—the rebellion in Warwickshire, plague, a Viking invasion . . .
Anything.
But nothing was going to delay the requirement that she go hunting.
She muttered about kings, queens, green-eyed devils, and the world in general as she went off to put on riding clothes—low boots and braies under a blue linen kirtle. She had Dorothy quickly make her hair into one long plait, which she then bound up with a scarf. She pouched her gown up over her belt, making it not much longer than the men’s, and went out to mount, one woman among twenty men.
And to think she had once thought such a situation would be exciting.
Everyone hoped for boar or hart, but many also carried hawks on hand to bring down tasty birds. Most carried bows in the hope of small game such as hare or badger. Madeleine had no hawk, but she had a bow and brought it. It was not a talent taught in the convent, however, and she was only just beginning to gain any skill with it. She knew she was unlikely to use the bow, for if she did she’d probably shoot wild from simple nervousness, and the men would laugh at her.
Her teeth clenched at the thought of the green-eyed Saxon laughing at her. Then she wondered in despair why her thoughts spun around him like thread around a spindle.
He showed no sign of approaching her, thank the Virgin, but just in case, Madeleine rode with Odo on one side and Stephen on the other. Their efforts to please soothed her jangling nerves. Stephen’s dry wit amused her, and even Odo made her smile with a story of a childhood adventure. But then he leaned sideways and put a hairy hand on her thigh. She moved her horse out of reach. He flashed her an ugly, sullen look, and Stephen smirked like a cat in a dairy.
Madeleine decided it was extremely unpleasant to be a dish of rich cream.
It was a lovely summer day, though, and Madeleine decided to enjoy it despite her predicament. It was warm with just enough breeze for comfort. The trees were a lush green, and the blue sky was clear except for occasional puffs of lambswool clouds. They rode among a riot of flowers—buttercup and celandine, daisy and poppy—all busily worked over by bees. A foolish hare hopped out of a hole and raced across a meadow. Someone drew a bow, and soon there was a hare hung at a saddle bow, meat destined for a pie-dish, fur to trim a hood or line boots.
This first small kill delighted everyone. Stephen started a song about hunting a leveret, and soon everyone joined in except Madeleine, who did not know the words. It was a long, merry song and very foolish in parts. Then she realized there was a double meaning. If the saucy little leveret with the naughty white behind was a girl and not a rabbit, some of the sillier lines made sense; especially where the arrow went.
She felt herself color. Odo sniggered. Madeleine frowned at Stephen, but he only winked. Madeleine didn’t like the look in her intended husband’s eye. It was not just coarse amusement; he was enjoying her discomfort. Men!
Aimery de Gaillard was behind her. She had no intention of turning to look, but she could imagine him, too, grinning at her naive embarrassment.
By the Blood, there must be an honest man in England who wanted to marry an heiress and do well by her. Why did she have these three to deal with? She glared at the back of the King of England, the author of all her troubles.
Stephen was called up to the king. Madeleine hoped it was for a reprimand but doubted it. All men were crude, hardhearted swine. Another horseman came up beside her. She caught her breath and turned. Then she sighed with relief. It was the other one, the brother, Leo.
“I doubt he meant to distress you, demoiselle,” Leo said easily. “There’s no hunting song written which doesn’t serve to cover the other principal obsession of men.”
“It would be more to the point,” she said tartly, “for men to keep their mind on their proper business, the welfare of their land and people.”
Odo chuckled. “She’s a devil’s tongue on her.”
“She’s also correct,” said Leo with a dismissive look at de Pouissey. “That’s why men should marry, Lady Madeleine. It takes the edge off this obsession with saucy venison.”
Madeleine turned to him angrily, but he held up a hand and grinned. “Pax, Lady. You can’t blame us, though, for being excited about your choice. It’s the most interesting point of contention since Senlac.”
“I doubt you can equate my marriage with the conquest of England, my lord. I’m not falling to the mightiest sword.”
“You could put it on that basis if you want,” Leo said amiably, “but I wouldn’t unless you want to marry Aimery. He’s the best swordsman here except me.”
“I could dispute that,” snarled Odo.
“You tried in Rockingham. And since then he’s been training with me.”
Odo was silenced. Madeleine considered the matter with interest. Was Aimery de Gaillard a skilled warrior, then, despite his professed dislike of war and his pretty clothes? She would never have supposed he could stand for a moment against such a massive man as his brother.
If so, he’d deliberately lied to her. Well, he wouldn’t get away with that. “Perhaps I should see my suitors’ fighting skills,” she mused.
“Bear in mind, Mad,” interrupted Odo, “that the de Gaillard family need all the land they can get to provide for their tribe of males.”
“And the de Pouisseys are rich in property?” queried Leo dryly. “You’re certainly deficient in males.” He turned back to Madeleine. “I’ll ride forward and tell the king you want a test of
arms later today.” He was off before she could gainsay it. Her hasty tongue had complicated everything.
“If you let them twist you to their tune, Mad,” said Odo angrily, “you’ll be a traitor’s widow before you bear the first babe.”
She caught her breath and turned. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve only to look at de Gaillard,” he said, blustering. “No true Norman would dress as he does. I’ve seen him talking in corners with his cousin, Edwin of Mercia. He’s not a man to trust as far as a bend in the road.”
“He’s cousin to the Earl of Mercia?” Madeleine asked. She knew de Gaillard was part English, but had never suspected such a close link to the English nobility. And there was a blood tie to the notorious rebel, Hereward, as well. Suddenly an alter-ego as an English outlaw was not as far-fetched as it had seemed.
But Golden Hart was in Warwickshire.
So rumor said.
“Aye, he’s hand in glove with the Saxons,” said Odo. “And they’re all just biding their time. They haven’t accepted William. One day soon they’ll rise again, and the Saxon de Gaillard will be with them.”
Sweet Jesu, perhaps he was Golden Hart. She swiveled to look at him, seeking Edwald and a faery prince. But now her tortured mind could only see a longhaired Norman.
Odo’s smug voice dragged her attention back. “As for Stephen,” he said, “I hope you won’t mind sharing his favors. He spent last night rutting in the stables.”
Madeleine recalled that feline smile of satiety and knew Odo spoke the truth. This morning Stephen had just come from a woman. Lord above, what now?
“Mad,” said Odo gently, “I’m the only sane choice. You know me. You like me. I didn’t realize how badly Father and Dame Celia were treating you. I wish you’d told me, and I would have done something.”
“I was about to,” she said bitterly, “when you tried to rape me.”
“No,” he protested. “Not that. I was carried away by my feelings for you. You weren’t really unwilling, just startled. But I frightened you, and I’m sorry.” He showed a lot of his crooked teeth. “You’re enough to drive any man to insanity, Mad.”
That should be flattering, surely. Madeleine didn’t feel flattered, but she began to wonder if she should reconsider Odo. It was something, at least, to be desired, and she probably knew the best and worst of him. She knew so little of men. Perhaps she had misinterpreted that attack. It seemed so long ago now, and if she were to marry Odo she would no longer have to take Paul and Celia along with him . . .
“The king wishes to speak to you, de Pouissey.” Madeleine turned so quickly that she cricked her neck. Aimery de Gaillard was riding on her right.
She turned back to her left and saw Odo’s scowl, but he could not refuse a command from the king, and so he rode forward. Warily, Madeleine turned back to the blond man, studying him. Now he looked neither Norman nor Saxon but just his own arrogant self.
He wore only a short-sleeved, knee-length tunic, a sleeveless leather jerkin, and knee-length, cross-gartered hose. But simply dressed he was not. His jerkin was ornamented with a fantastic metal design of interwoven snakes which was not only beautiful but would also turn an arrow; his belt was carved and gilded and fastened with a clasp of gold and amethyst; his hose was bright green cross-gartered with brown and white embroidery.
And of course, he wore his gaudy bracelets. She couldn’t help assessing the value of even one of those hunks of jewelry.
“Do you want it?” he asked, and she looked quickly up into those cold green eyes
“No,” she denied, but then added, “Would you give it to me if I asked?”
“I’m under orders to woo you,” he said flatly. “If you want my gold, you have only to ask for it before witnesses.”
“I do need money,” she admitted, keeping her tone equally cool. “All that bullion is a temptation.”
He laughed, but there was a sharp edge to it. “You have the rare virtue of honesty. What a pity you have so few virtues to be honest about.”
She felt her color flare and her anger spark. “Lord Aimery, why do you dislike me? My situation is no better than yours. I don’t wish to marry any one of my suitors, but I lack the luxury of refusal. You, however, are under no compulsion, so I see no reason for your bitterness.”
He reached for her reins and stopped her horse. “Lady Madeleine, none of us has more luxury of refusal than you. You can turn your back on us all and return to your nunnery. If we refuse to accept your decision, we will be flung into the outer darkness where the king’s favor will never shine.”
He was deadly serious. “But he favors you.”
“That has little to do with it.”
The riders behind split and rode around them. No one, apparently, was going to object to this tête-à-tête. Nor was Madeleine. He seemed to be in a mood for plain speaking, and perhaps at last she could make sense of everything.
“Why don’t you want to marry me?” she asked, studying his face again for Edwald. It was hard to be sure. If he was Edwald, surely he’d jump at the chance of controlling a barony and using all its resources for the rebellion.
“I don’t want to marry a woman I don’t like.”
She gasped. “Why am I so repulsive to you? In all honor, I am no more a sinner than the next person. Without vanity I have to say I am not hard to look at. Why?”
His eyes were hard. Nothing like Edwald’s. “I speak English,” he said, “and I know Baddersley. You are a harsh and ruthless woman. Doubtless those are excellent qualities in some circumstances, but they are not ones I seek in a wife.”
“Harsh?” she queried blankly. “Ruthless?”
He slipped off his horse and stood with his hand on her pommel. “Does that description offend you?” he asked. “I would have thought you’d glory in such terms.”
She looked down at him, and then at his hand on her saddle. Madeleine’s mind was fogged by the awareness of his hand so close to the join of her thighs where they were stretched across the horse, by the warm weight of his arm across her thigh. She looked around dazedly. The two of them were alone. “The hunt . . .”
“Ride on then.”
Eyes fixed unseeingly on that hand, Madeleine made no move to start the horse. He hated her, and yet her body responded to him as to no other. Except Edwald.
“Speak to me in English,” she said.
He was surprised, but after a moment he quoted from a poem. “ ‘Time and again at the day’s dawning/I must mourn all my afflictions alone./There is no one still living to whom I dare open/The doors of my heart.” ’ The clear, musical English flowed from his tongue with a crisp beauty she had never heard before. Nothing like Edwald’s rough voice.
She sighed. “What do you want?”
“Your word that you will not choose me as husband.”
It should be easy to comply, for had she not decided she’d be mad to marry him? But that was before she’d found out about Stephen. “I don’t know,” she said. “I can’t marry Odo. I can’t tell you why, but I really don’t think I can. And I don’t want to marry Stephen . . .” She looked sideways at him. “Odo says he’s been dallying with the castle women.”
He smiled derisively. “And that turns you against him? Odo and I aren’t virgins, you know.”
“I suppose you’ve dallied with the Baddersley women, too,” she said bleakly, thinking of Aldreda. He was right to laugh at her naivete.
“Of course I have.” A flicker of pleasant recollection passed over his face. “It was a highly memorable encounter.”
Madeleine’s teeth gritted, but she knew him far better than was reasonable, and with a flash of inspiration asked, “On this visit?”
His eyes widened. He grasped her arm and pulled her off the horse.
“What . . . ! Let go of me!”
He had her in a hard grip, one hand at the back of her neck as if he’d break it. Her heart was thundering, yet not just from terror. She remembered Odo’s attack and her immediate
rejection and disgust. Now she was afraid but also drawn toward something, like a moth toward a deadly flame. “What are you going to do?” she whispered.
“Kiss you.”
Her lips tingled, and she licked them, unaknowledged hopes beginning to spiral up to her brain. “I thought you didn’t want to marry me.”
“You’re not going to like it,” he promised. “Either crude Odo or philandering Stephen is going to seem a treasure in comparison.”
Hope shattered into acid fragments. She pulled back, but his grip tightened. It bit on an old bruise, and she cried out.
He relaxed his hold instantly and she saw his shock at having hurt her. He might threaten, but she doubted he could really brutalize her, so why was he trying to? “Why?” she asked again. “Why?”
He tightened his lips, changed his grip to a manacle on her wrist, and dragged her away from the restive horses to a mighty oak. He flung her against it and leaned forward, his hard body confining her. “I don’t like you, Madeleine de la Haute Vironge. I don’t want Baddersley. If you force me to marry you, I will make your life a misery.”
The rough bark of the tree bit into her flesh and revived some bruises, but discomfort was drowned by the smell of leather and sweat, by the hard warmth of his body overlayed by ridges of metal and jewels. His cruel words clashed with messages her soul drank in. “I don’t want to marry you either, you know!” Even as she cried it, she knew it was an utter lie.
And he knew it, too. “Let’s make sure of it,” he said. One hand snared both her wrists with ease. The other grabbed her jaw and forced it open as he clamped his lips bruisingly to hers. His tongue, thick and heavy, thrust deep into her mouth, a vile invasion. Madeleine gagged. She struggled but could scarcely move. Her protests produced only mewling, choking sounds.
Blackness started to gather . . .
Then, with a groan, he freed her mouth and pulled her away from the tree into his arms. His hold became not a prison but a haven. When his lips returned to softly brush hers, Madeleine didn’t shrink away. When his tongue tentatively brushed against her teeth, her own tongue flicked of its own volition to greet it. It had learned its lessons well. She looked at him, bewildered. His eyes, too, were dark, confused, and troubled.
