by Ashley York
“There’s one thing you should know for certain. When we were in the shelter to get out of the storm and you offered yourself to me, I realized something that I don’t think you understand. Do you know what that is?”
“That we are very well matched in bed.”
Peter bit his lip to keep from smiling. “And do you know why that is?”
She lifted a shoulder. “No.”
“When you offered yourself to me, I realized you were always mine. I realized how much you meant to me. I realized that I would be lost if I ever had to give you up.”
Her eyes widened and she sat up beside him.
“I realized I was in love with you.”
“Peter, I—”
“Let me have my say. When your brother would have taken you away from me, I realized I could never let you go. So I played on your brother’s anger and sense of honor. By marrying you, I would never have to be without you.”
Peter took her hand to his lips, his eyes still on her face, and kissed the palm of her hand. “I love you, Brighit. You make me complete. I will spend every day of our lives together seeing to your happiness because of how much happiness you’ve given me.”
Brighit wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him close against her. “Did you hear me when I told you I loved you? I do, Peter. I love you.”
“My heart soared when you spoke those words to me. I vow to never make you regret marrying me.”
He leaned up to her and kissed her as he had in the chapel. Then he pulled back. “Is there anything else you wish to tell me?” Peter brushed his knuckles alongside her breast. “I will listen. Anything?”
She flattened his hand over her stomach. “I don’t need to tell you what you’ve already deduced. Do I?”
“Please just say the words.”
She took his hand and placed it over her womb then looked at him with an expectant expression. “I am carrying your child.”
A small push against his hand.
She smiled. “I believe that may be the babe moving. We’ll have to see as it grows.”
Peter felt a tug of fear. He rested his head on her breast and spoke without looking at her. “Can we take care that you will deliver without a problem?”
She ran her hand over his head. “Oh, Peter, do you fear that?”
“Woman die in childbirth every day.”
“Is that why you seemed so angry when Ruth was in labor? Did you fear she was about to die?”
Peter nodded against her. “And there would have been nothing I could do to save her.” He swallowed before he continued. “There was nothing they could do to save my own mother.”
“Your mother died in childbirth?”
“Yes. She died delivering me.”
Brighit pulled him closer. “That’s terrible!”
“And until very shortly, I believed another woman I had been intimate with had died delivering my child. I felt cursed.” He exhaled quietly, afraid of her reaction but he wanted to share everything with her. “My father assured me I was indeed cursed.”
Brighit tensed beneath him. “How could a man tell that to his child?”
“With the pounding of a fist usually.”
“Oh, dear Peter. He beat you?” She held him against her bosom. “That dirty pig!”
“I believed I deserved it. He told me that I did.” Peter’s voice sounded flat but inside he saw again his father’s enraged face. “Over and over, he would hit me. I can’t remember how old I was when it started. I don’t remember him ever not beating me. I do remember standing at my mother’s grave and praying to God to strike me dead.”
Brighit’s tear hitting his hand brought his mind back to her.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shared that with you.”
She shook her head and the tears flowed in earnest. “Peter, that is no way for a man to treat his son.” She cupped his cheek. “You are a wonderful, kind man. The gentlest man I know. My heart cries for the little boy you were.”
Brighit pulled him close to her. “Let us show our child only love. A gentle hand.”
He picked up his head and looked her in the eyes. “I would not want to lose you.”
“Peter, I am a strong woman. You will not lose me.”
He sat up to lean on his elbow and wiped at her tears. “When John brought news that the other woman had died delivering someone else’s child, I felt... relief. Does that not make me cruel?”
“Never. You believed you were cursed. Now you see that you are not. You do see that?”
Peter held her gaze. “I see that I could be immensely happy with you. If you chose to stay with me.” He took her hand to his lips and kissed it. “I do love you, Brighit.”
“And I love you.”
Peter lifted an eyebrow and eased her back to lying in the bed. “Then let us see of this strength of yours. The hour is still early, if you are willing?”
“I’m always willing.”
The End
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Thank you for taking your valuable time to read my latest novel. Below, you will find links to my website as well as my email address. I look forward to hearing your thoughts on this and other novels. I love interacting with my readers!
I have wanted to be a writer since the sixth grade. My first story was a mystery and I discovered that my classmates loved it and it kept them guessing. I was a voracious reader, even at a young age, and loved the history in the novels I picked up. I was so enthralled with that history that I decided to get my MA in History. The early medieval period is my favorite, as you can tell from the novels I write.
Although all my works are fiction, I often like to incorporate authentic places, events, and people to increase the reader’s enjoyment. One of the more valuable lessons I have learned as a writer is the importance of using real history with the flair of artistic license. You’ll discover a world of fiction wrapped around historical people and events! I hope you enjoy reading these stories as much as I delight in writing them.
I live in New England with my husband, two cats and a yellow Labrador named Caledonia.
You can connect with me online:
Website: www.ashleyyorkauthor.com
Email: [email protected]
Please enjoy these sample chapters from The Saxon Bride, the first book in The Norman Conquest Series.
Ashley
PROLOGUE
Essex, England 1071
A Norman. I have been given to a Norman to wife.
Rowena Godwinson, daughter of the late Earl of Essex and the last living member of that powerful Saxon family, stood before her reflection in the polished brass. The wedding gown passed down through three generations of Godwin women before her, draped softly across the shoulders, skimming down her waist and falling over the tips of her deerskin slippers. She blinked back with vacant eyes.
Fear tripped up her spine and her stomach clenched. She had lived among the victors for nigh on five years now. Their disdain for her people was quite obvious. Now the man who had usurped her own uncle as rightful king at the Battle of Hastings had ordered her to marry. With both parents dead, she was his ward.
Rowena clenched her teeth and turned to the window. She glimpsed the slate roof of the chapel beyond the trees where the nuptials would take place this very day. Her family’s chapel. Countless celebrations with uncles, close friends, and more cousins than she could name, had taken place there. Those were happy years.
“My lady?”
Rowena looked at the drawn face of her handmaiden, Joan. The blonde sheen of her hair, long gone with the stress of the circumstances and occupation they were all forced to live under.
“Yes?”
Joan gulped. “Do you think he will be kind to you? Tonight, I mean?”
Rowena’s breath caught in her throat. The marriage bed. How would her husband treat her? With kindness? As her husband, he gained much by this union. A lot of responsibility, yes, but also power. Some men loved power.
“I believe he will be kind as I will give him no reason not to be.”
Joan’s eyes rounded. Rowena smiled tightly.
“Fear not, Joan. I will be amicable.”
“My lady, would that I could impart upon you my own knowledge, but I have none. Your mother’s death before she prepared you leaves you in a bad way.”
“Perhaps he will be a gentle man. John.” His name was all she knew.
“Yes, my lady. He is one of William’s most trusted knights.”
“A warrior.” Rowena’s tone was flat and for an instant she saw again her father. Cold and dead. Blood all around. She forced the memory aside. “Then he will be a good protector.”
“Yes, but of whom?”
Norman soldiers had been in the castle and beyond ever since. They had no need for Saxons. If they did have needs, they took what they wanted. When Rowena tried to voice her objections to such ill treatment, it fell on deaf ears.
“I will be by his side now. I will win him over to our cause.” Despite her own misgivings, Rowena attempted to reassure her.
Joan sighed her relief. “Then we will pray you please him.”
The knock on the door echoed in Rowena’s chest. She nodded her consent. Joan opened the door to reveal a burly Norman soldier, his pointed helmet still in place on his head, its shield hiding his face.
“I’ve come for the Lady Rowena.” His voice was muffled but understandable.
He pushed his way past Joan and grabbed Rowena’s arm. She jerked away without thinking, and he shoved her back against the wall. Joan’s shriek filled the small space. His pungent breath assailed her nostrils as he moved in close.
“Silence!” He threw the command over his shoulder then focused his attention back on Rowena. His helmet dipped as his eyes took in every aspect of her body. ”I look forward to your joining with Lord John.”
Rowena fought to control her outrage. And her fear.
“Do you know what Normans do with their lord’s wives?” His voice was quiet, menacing.
She shook her head.
“The lord has first use but then he allows his most loyal soldiers a taste as well.”
“What?” Rowena gasped. Why would any man treat his wife so? He must be lying. “What if a child is begotten? How does he know it is his?”
The man threw back his head and laughed. She could see his dark eyes through the slit in the metal when he lowered his head to her. “Don’t you know King William is a bastard? He believes it is better to father your heir with your mistress than your wife.”
“But... but I heard he loves his Queen.”
“Theirs was a marriage of love. Not by proclamation. And not to receive title to the lands.”
Without warning, he grabbed her by the arm and dragged her through the doorway. Joan’s shrill cries followed her down the hall. Three more soldiers came up alongside of them.
“Did you tell her?” one of them asked.
“She knows the way of it.”
Rowena yanked against their firm grasp but they shoved her from behind. Along the road, the onlookers gawked at the treatment of the last Godwinson. She refused to hide her head in shame. In her attempt to keep her dignity, she stopped her struggling and fought to keep up with their long strides. Outside the chapel door, they halted.
“And I look forward,” the first guard ran his hand up her side, grabbing her breast as she struggled anew, “my lady, to getting a piece of you for myself.”
Rowena spat at him. “Don’t touch me!” she screamed. The moisture dripped down his visor.
The man jerked the helmet off, his face a dark scowl. “I’ll do even more.”
The guards all laughed but when they pushed the door open and she saw the dark-haired man turn towards her, she groaned inwardly. Her new lord and master glowered at her. He had the face of any angel.
Oh, God, what will become of me?
The musty smell of incense filled the windowless structure and threatened to suffocate Sir John of Normandy waiting before the altar. Despite his outward appearance of calm, John’s insides were tightly wound, his nerves stretched as tight as an archer’s bow. Armed guards dragged the struggling woman through the tall wooden doors toward him. John held his breath, his body strained in sympathy with the force of her effort.
“I will never marry that Norman scum!” Rowena screamed, her voice shrieking back in echoes like a curse from the hard stone walls to the small, somber group standing between the unlikely couple. The Norman soldiers gathered as witnesses to the impromptu nuptials shifted uncomfortably. Understandably, they preferred not to look directly at the dark-haired Saxon woman, but toward their leader. John hoped he succeeded at appearing to wait patiently for his bride to be. Damn.
Her silver eyes flashed as she jerked against the firm hands. A shiver passed down his spine. She had her father’s eyes. Those eyes haunted his dreams. When she spat on the ground, the guard raised his hand to her but John stepped forward, stopping him from slapping her for such a show of disrespect.
“Enough.”
The scene did not sit well with him. Her body was small and delicate beside his six-foot frame. She looked much younger than her sixteen years of age. Her attempts at resistance were futile, as had been his own. This marriage would take place. King William himself had ordered it. Her excess of stubbornness was another trait John remembered from her father, Earl Leofwine Godwinson. Common sense seemed a foreign concept to both father and daughter. Rather than accept defeat and come to terms, Leofwine had been determined to fight to the death.
And now five years later, John recognized the same crazed look. Her eyes darting wildly around the tiny church like a trapped animal, desperately searching for escape. The king must be obeyed.
“Please, my lady.” John spoke gently as he would to a wild mare. Reaching toward her, he stopped short at the fury in those narrowed eyes. She will kill me in my sleep. John could see his death at her delicate hands. His life meant nothing to her. She would prefer him dead. His jaw clenched. There was not a chance in hell he could consummate this marriage.
With a guard on either side forcing her to stand and respond, John of Normandy was wed to Rowena, orphaned daughter of the Saxon Earl of Kent, Essex, Middlesex, Hertford, Surrey and Buckinghamshire and ward of King William. John was now one of the most powerful men in England…and he had no desire for any of it.
After the exchange of vows and the blessing from the French bishop, an awkward silence was mercifully interrupted by the muffled jingling of the hauberks worn by the dust-covered soldiers who entered the chapel.
“Lord John?”
Trying not to notice the woman who trembled beside him with her sobbing, John sighed in relief to see one of William’s own messengers rushing toward him.
“Is there a problem?” he asked.
The man handed John a letter. Quickly breaking King William’s seal, John read the orders. A new battle had broken out to the north and the king needed reinforcements immediately. Although John’s presence was not specifically requested, here was his chance to separate himself from his new bride. Breathing a sigh of relief, there was no reason to delay his departure. Pulling on his leather gloves, he turned away from the brown-haired woman.
“Prepare yourselves. The king needs your assistance,” he ordered as he walked away without a word to her. He would live to see another day.
CHAPTER ONE
Normandy, 1074
Greetings Lord John,
I bid you come at once to the castle at Montreuil. The King of France wishes to see me well located here for the irritation of my enemies. You and I have much to discuss and plans to make. King Malcolm overwhelms me with skins and vessels of gold and silver, seeking my friendship. He will come to me here. Across the sea, enemies surround me, threatening to undo all I have accomplished. I have shown the utmost care and regard for my subjects but find only deceit and subterfuge.
I have granted you
gladly the shires of Essex, Surrey, and Buckingham for your continued loyalty. My hope in giving you the lovely Lady Rowena to wife was only to add to your pleasure as Lord there. I bid you return with me full armed against those who durst move against me. I seek the fealty of your castlemen there by spring next.
William, King of England
Tossing the letter onto the desk, John sighed. The low candle sputtered, spraying small drops of blood-red wax across the parchment. Of course the king wanted their fealty. Nigh on eight years had passed since he’d won the day. Why shouldn’t they accept him as their rightful king? And yet they fought... tooth and nail, they resisted.
Having been with the man since the age of eight, John knew William’s strengths. Tenacity. Persistence. Mercilessness. Even after being crowned as king, William was met with battle after battle as he made inroads throughout the small island. There needed to be a patient Norman presence in each area if William was to keep England as his own. That was the crux. John was to be that presence.
With a heavy heart, John planned his return to England and to his wife. Lady Rowena. The girl he’d been forced to wed three years earlier wasted away in her bitterness toward everything Norman, no doubt. She’d called him Norman scum. Now John would face her again. What epithet would she throw at him?
He’d tried to convince the king to wed her to another but all he’d wanted to talk about was their great conquest over the Saxons. John’s memory of that conquest was of the last man who’d fallen by his sword, the father of the very woman he was forced to marry. The sight of the young Lady Rowena sobbing over her father’s body had sent a spear of guilt through his heart. He’d lost many a good night’s sleep with those memories.
“Do you yield?” John had shouted the question at him, nigh begged him, for the third time while the rest of the Saxon men were rounded up and disarmed by the Norman soldiers. They had already surrendered. The Earl did not seem to understand his words although John spoke perfect English. Instead, the man turned on him.
