Lord of My Heart

by Jo Beverley

  Sister Winifred ordered half the rich summer milk to be made into hard cheeses, which would be wrapped carefully and stored in a cool place. After careful thought she and Madeleine decided the best place was the chapel, their only stone building other than the armory. It was cool and secure.

  Father Cedric was completely willing to lend its use as a storage place. “Christ provided the wine at Cana, Lady Madeleine. He will be happy to provide cheese in January.”

  Madeleine gave two men responsibility for turning the cheeses and guarding them from every hazard, for she knew people could live well on cheese even if there was no meat.

  As for that, Winifred was drying meat as well as plants. She explained it would not be as palatable as smoked and salted meat but would keep longer. It could be pounded to a powder and added to boiled grains and herbs to make a nourishing porridge.

  Madeleine felt as if a burden had been lifted. Starvation seemed impossible with the sisters here. They were always cheerful and energetic. Problems which had nearly overwhelmed Madeleine seemed to them an exciting challenge. They infected all the castle people with their enthusiasm, and everyone worked as never before.

  In addition, the two nuns were a relieving presence. They spent their due time at their office, often chanting their prayers as they worked, but at evening meals they were lighthearted and ready with merry stories—and their stories were not, like Hugh’s, of war.

  Was it Madeleine’s imagination, or was even Aimery soothed by the sisters? She was sure of it when they talked him into offering a song one night. He had not played his lyre since their marriage, though Geoffrey and Hugh had asked now and then. Madeleine swallowed tears as she listened to his lovely voice. He wasn’t yet singing a song for her, but he was singing, and that was something.

  When he put the lyre aside he seemed relaxed. He and Madeleine were still at the high table, but the sisters had gone to sit by a window to catch the last of the light for their needlework. Hugh and Geoffrey were with the men in the hall, comparing techniques for sharpening blades.

  At any moment, if the pattern of previous evenings held, Aimery too would find reason to leave her, but Madeleine sensed this could be a moment when she could find some kindness, some closeness in him.

  “How is the work on the keep going?” she asked.

  “It’s nearly done. It won’t withstand an army, but then, nothing here will.”

  “What else needs to be done to the defenses?” In truth, Madeleine didn’t care, but she couldn’t think of another topic of conversation.

  “We can continue to strengthen the walls, but other than that there’s only the moat. It depends on whether you want the stream diverted.”

  “I don’t know.”

  He gave her a look which clearly said that in that case he was wasting his time talking to her.

  “What I mean,” she said quickly, “is I don’t understand the implications for the village. Will it affect the drainage, or the irrigation of the fields?”

  She had his attention, and a touch of respect. “It needs to be considered. I don’t think most Normans do—they leave the people to adjust as best they can.”

  Her words had not been thought through, but now she saw they were important, and he admired her for it. Her heart lifted. “I think we should ask the villagers at one of their meetings. The moot, don’t they call it?”

  “Yes.” He studied her as he drank from his goblet. “Aren’t you afraid of becoming a little too English, asking the opinion of peasants?”

  “I am English,” she said firmly. “Norman-English, but English all the same. This is my home.”

  “So it is.”

  He drank again. Madeleine lifted her own goblet, searching desperately for a new topic of conversation. “How is your hand?” she asked.

  After the first few days, once it was certain the wound would heal, he had taken over its tending himself. But today, for the first time, he was wearing the bracelet. The design was clearly revealed on the back of his hand. It was distorted by the scars, but she had done a fine piece of work. Once one recognized it, the design was clearly a hart with fine, broad antlers.

  She caught her breath. Her fine work could lead to his death. No wonder he hadn’t wanted it sewn.

  “It’s healing well,” he said.

  “It does not pain you to wear the bracelet?”

  “No.”

  Madeleine took a deep breath. “If I had not sewn it, that design would have been ruined.”

  His eyes met hers. “So it would.”

  Madeleine licked her dry lips. “What is done,” she said carefully, “could be undone.”

  He did not pretend to misunderstand. “I could slash myself with a knife, or lean carelessly against hot iron in the forge. I will not force my wyrd.”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?” she asked in irritation. Such an accident would be a tiny hurt compared to his punishment if caught.

  “The English adhere to the Norse idea of fate, Madeleine. Our wyrd cannot be changed. Our only choice is whether we face what comes with honor and courage, or disgrace ourselves by trying to flee.”

  “But you are Norman-English.” She stated it as a challenge.

  His eyes dropped to his goblet, and he turned it slowly. “Am I?”

  An icy chill shot through her at such an admission of guilt. “You had better be.”

  His eyes came up sharply. “It would be unwise to threaten me, Madeleine.”

  “Would it? Does it not occur to you that I might have a sense of honor? And courage enough to act as I think right.”

  He was still. “And do you?”

  “I pray God I do.”

  He took a deep breath. “And so do I.”

  “What?” Madeleine asked in confusion.

  “Above all else,” he said seriously, “what I ask for in a wife is honor and courage.”

  Madeleine caught her breath. He was talking to her, really talking to her, and coming close to the subject she wanted to address—their feelings for each other. “Even if it leads to your death?” she asked.

  He smiled slightly. “Even then.”

  Madeleine felt her heart speed and a tingle in her hands. Suddenly it was not easy to think straight, and yet was so important that she do so. “Do you doubt my courage?” she asked.

  He considered it. “No, I think you brave.”

  “Do you then doubt my honor?”

  He did not answer, which was answer enough.

  Madeleine searched for an explanation. He had been angry that day in the hut about the cruelty to the people. “It was Uncle Paul who caused the suffering here. I did what I could, but I was as powerless as the rest. Once, when I tried to challenge him, he threatened to whip me.”

  “I understand there was little you could do.”

  “What then?” She racked her brain further for the fault. “I was a virgin when I wed you. You know that.”

  His eyes crinkled, but it was a cruel humor. “But only just.”

  Madeleine leaped to her feet. “Is that what you’re objecting to?” she demanded. “That day by the stream?” She realized she had attracted attention and lowered her voice. “Now that’s a case of the pot calling the kettle black if ever I heard one.”

  He gripped her arm. “There’s a difference between men and women, and well you know it.”

  “Yes,” she shouted, pulling against his grip. “Men wouldn’t know honor if it hit them in the face!”

  Silence fell. Madeleine looked round to see outrage and anger on the faces of the Norman men. Oh, Lord.

  She found herself upside down over Aimery’s shoulder, bouncing her way to the solar. He dumped her on the bed. She scrambled off—after a momentary hesitation in case his intentions were amorous.

  They weren’t. He was unbuckling his belt.

  “Angels and saints preserve me,” she whispered, and looked around for an escape. She could leap out of the window, but he’d catch her in a moment. She backed away. “Don
’t. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it.”

  He walked forward, then swung the belt hard so that it thwacked down on the bed. “Scream,” he said.

  Madeleine gaped, then bit her lip against a giggle. Then, at the third stoke, she let out a faint scream.

  “Is that the best you can do?” he asked. Thwack. “Haven’t you ever been beaten?” His lips were fighting to smile.

  Thwack.

  “Ow!” Madeleine shrieked and began to get into the spirit of things. “Stop, please stop! Mercy!”

  He was smiling. She loved the sight of it.

  Thwack.

  “Nooo!” she wailed, and knocked a heavy wooden bowl to the floor. “Mercy!”

  Thwack.

  “You’ve already said that,” he pointed out, his eyes brilliant with hilarity.

  “So?” she hissed.

  Thwack. “So, be more creative.”

  “When I’m in such pain,” she muttered, “it’s hard to be creative.” She flung her arms wide and screamed, “Argh! You’re killing me!”

  Thwack.

  “Spare me, lord of my heart!”

  Thwack.

  “I will worship you on my knees all my days!”

  He stopped wielding his belt and leaned against the wall in tears of laughter, holding his sides. It was infectious. She began to whoop with it. She was sure in the hall it sounded like the wildest tears.

  She recovered, belly aching, to find him still leaning against the wall, but calm now, arms folded. Amusement lingered on his face.

  Giggles bubbled up again. “You’ll have a terrible reputation.”

  “That’s the idea.” He turned serious. “I can’t rule those men if they think my wife can insult me, and them.”

  She nodded. “I’ll watch my tongue.”

  “You’d better. If you put me in a position where I have to beat you, Madeleine, I will.”

  She acknowledged it but couldn’t hold back a teasing smile. “But not so hard, please, lord of my heart.”

  He choked on laughter and buckled his belt again. “You deserve far worse. You had best keep to your room tonight and look suitably subdued tomorrow.” At the door he turned, still smiling. “I look forward to seeing you worshipping me on your knees.”

  Chapter 14

  Aimery had to work hard to look harsh as he entered the hall. Some of the men cheered but stopped abruptly when he stared at them. Hugh was frowning, and Geoffrey was as white as a sheet.

  Aimery realized he had a problem. Clearly everyone expected Madeleine to be a bruised and beaten wretch. He didn’t care about the men-at-arms; their misinterpretation might even increase the healthy fear he was building in them. He didn’t, however, want Geoffrey to think that was the way to handle a wife.

  He sat down between Hugh and Geoffrey. Geoffrey flinched slightly. “Some women scream a lot over very little,” Aimery said.

  “Yes, Lord.” Geoffrey wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  “She’ll be out here as good as new tomorrow.”

  Geoffrey looked at him, disbelieving but hopeful.

  “My word on it.” Aimery poured the young man some mead. “You’d be amazed at how few of those blows hit. Perhaps I should practice.” He caught Hugh’s eye, and the older man’s lips twitched.

  The next day Madeleine crept about the hall like a properly subdued wife, wincing slightly when she remembered. She was amused and even touched by some of the reactions. Geoffrey de Sceine hovered around her anxiously, Sisters Winifred and Gertrude spoke scathingly of men, and most of the hall women showed a pitying kind of sympathy which was as close to acceptance as Madeleine had experienced here.

  Perhaps it was this sense of belonging that made it seem the sun shone more brightly, that the air was full of perfume and birdsong. Perhaps that was what made her want to dance and sing.

  But it wasn’t. It was the memory of that shared madness and laughter with Aimery.

  She was in love. She had first called him lord of her heart in jest, but it was all too true.

  It was bittersweet. He had not changed. He’d come to bed cold and breakfasted curtly. The barrier had cracked but been mended, and she still did not know what the problem was.

  But she was in love with her husband, which wasn’t all bad. And inside his iron-cold shell there was laughter and fire just waiting to burst free. She would crack that shell if it was the last thing she did.

  In the meantime there was still work to do, and it seemed an excellent way to convince him of her honor. As she worked she waited for the evening meal when there might be an opportunity to chip away at his resistance.

  That evening the nuns showed their disapproval of Aimery by sitting apart in silence, so the meal passed in the old way with talk of war, weapons, and hunting. Madeleine listened and waited. When the tables were broken down, Geoffrey and Hugh went to join a dice game. Aimery was cool, but he made no immediate move to leave the table. He poured them more wine. “It would be to your advantage to pay more attention to talk of warfare,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “A convent obviously isn’t the place to raise a chatelaine,” he remarked. “If I am away, you will be in command of the castle, and though Hugh would organize any fighting, he should act at your command.”

  “Will you teach me?” she asked eagerly. In truth, it was not so much the knowledge she sought as the time spent with him. Perhaps he recognized it, and that was why he hesitated. But then he rose. “Yes,” he said. “Come outside.”

  They passed through the big hall doors into a bailey washed by the red of the setting sun. Most work was done, and those who lived in the castle were relaxing, chatting, or playing games. The villagers were drifting home. One man was whistling.

  There was still a long way to go, thought Madeleine, but it was so much better than before. The people had hope.

  She ventured a comment. “They seem much happier.”

  “They should be. We’re spending a fortune feeding them.” When he looked at her, there was almost a smile on his face.

  He abruptly turned serious and strode toward the palisade. Madeleine had to scurry to catch up.

  “The palisade and ditch are your main defense,” he said briskly. “It’s old-fashioned and won’t keep out a force of any substance. In such a case you should sue for terms.”

  “What kind of terms?”

  “As many lives as you can save. Yours above all.” This was said without any trace of sentiment.

  “That seems selfish.”

  “It’s practical. The fate of the common people won’t be changed by you staying or going. If you win free, you may be able to raise a force to recapture the place, and you won’t be a hostage.”

  Aimery climbed up the steep stairs leading to the walkway at the top of the palisade and turned to offer her a hand. Madeleine did not need it, but took it for the touch, brief though it was.

  He stood behind her in the narrow space, wide enough for only one man to squeeze past another, and with no rail to prevent a fall into the bailey. A brisk breeze blew her loose hair. He put up a hand to brush it from his face. Feeling his body warm and hard behind her reminded her of the faery prince, his voice, his touch . . .

  Madeleine was swamped by longing and closed her eyes, grateful that at least he could not see her weakness.

  He cleared his throat. “You’re unlikely to come under attack by a major force,” he said rather gruffly, “and these defenses should deter marauders. The main thing is to keep the ditch free of debris and the land beyond clear of growth. That way no one can sneak up on you. The guards should be able to pick off any attackers with arrows, and they’ll be off to seek an easier target.”

  “Such as the village,” Madeleine said with disapproval.

  “They’ll raid that no matter what. With any kind of warning, the villagers will be off into the woods or up here for protection. That’s why you have to be sure the watchcorn is alert. You carried a bow at the hunt. How good are you?”

&
nbsp; Madeleine turned slightly to look at him. “Dreadful.”

  A flicker of humor lightened his face. “Then improve.”

  “Am I supposed to beat off invaders single-handedly?”

  “It could come to that. But I was thinking we’re going to need a lot of hares for the pot.”

  He turned to lead the way off the platform. Madeleine bubbled with optimism. The crack was not completely healed, and the fire within glowed in the evening light.

  He guided her over to the small armory and unlocked the door. He took a bow and deftly strung it, then grabbed a handful of arrows and headed outside.

  “I hope that’s for you, not me,” she said.

  “Of course not. It’s probably a little stronger than you’re used to, but try it.”

  Madeleine accepted the weapon reluctantly. “The light’s almost gone. How do you expect me to hit the target?”

  “If you’re as bad as you say, I don’t.”

  She gave him a look. “If I kill someone, you pay the wergild.”

  “I pay everything around here anyway,” he said, but lightly. He pointed at the side of the stables. “Hit that.”

  Madeleine gave a snort of disgust, drew, and loosed. The arrow thunked high into the log wall, just at the edge of the thatch.

  “Well, you hit it,” he remarked. “Just.”

  “Yes, I did,” she retorted. “Just where I intended to.”

  “Did you? Then hit the same spot again.”

  Trust him to catch her out. Frowning with the effort, Madeleine tried to repeat her former movements. The arrow sailed up to bury itself in the thatch.

  He shook his head. “When you release the string, you’re not supposed to relax your left arm, too.” He came and stood behind her, covering both her hands with his own. “For a short shot, hold your left hand on the target and don’t let it move.” He drew back the string and released it, not letting Madeleine jerk.

  Madeleine tried to learn, but she was dizzy from being in his arms. The hard power of his thighs behind hers, the rippling muscles of his forearms before her eyes, were turning her own limbs to water.

  He stepped away and handed her another arrow. She fumbled as she notched it, then got a hold on herself. With grim determination she kept her left hand on her first arrow and stiffened her arm until she feared it would break. She let the arrow fly, and it shuddered into the wood only a couple of feet from her target. “Stars and angels!” she exclaimed.