The Gentle Knight (The Norman Conquest Book 2)

by Ashley York

  “I will never yield to you, Norman scum!” Godwinson ran at John with a crazed look in his silver gray eyes, his heavy battle axe raised at the ready. Trying to avoid him, John had been tripped up in his attempt to side-step the man’s attack. The Norman broadsword found its mark in the man’s heart, pushed through by Godwinson’s own impetus as he fell against John.

  John’s moan filled his small room, bringing him back to the present. Now, after so much time, what would he find at the castle…the castle that was rightly his? The Saxons had resisted their presence then and they would resist their presence now. The girl’s rage was probably doubled. No—she would be a woman now. John hissed through his teeth in irritation. He should have already taken care of this. He just didn’t know how to do that short of forcing himself on her. He was not going to accept that role for anyone. Instead he’d kept his distance. He wasn’t even sure he remembered what she looked like.

  “Do you have to leave now?” So deep in his own thoughts, John hadn’t heard Abigail enter the small room. She sauntered toward him, a smile playing on her full, red lips. Always playing the seductress. Did she think she could actually get him to disobey the king’s orders? He suppressed a smile at the thought. She thought far too much of herself.

  Outside, the sun was already casting dark shadows on the stone floor. Damn. He’d meant to be gone by now. No doubt his men waited for him as he sat reminiscing. He snorted and the dark-haired woman frowned in confusion. Without answering, he strode out the door and into the courtyard. Much to his embarrassment, she followed him.

  “I’ll make it worth your while to stay.” Abigail said, grabbing at him when he stopped beside his destrier, causing the animal to pull back. Her ample breasts pressed against him and her green eyes sparkled with lusty promises. His men shifted as they stood around him, avoiding his gaze.

  “Abigail.” His irritation was rising. He’d explained to her in detail that he had a wife, maybe not a wife of his own choosing, but a wife nonetheless. His own reluctance to go only added to his impatience. A horse whinnied behind him. He would not go against the king. He pulled her away from him, firmly holding her at arm’s length.

  “Do not make me send you away from here,” John directed, his jaw tightened in anger.

  Pouting. Ah, yes, her favorite ploy. There had never been any promises between them. He allowed her to play the lady of his manor, and she took charge very well. John was so seldom in residence that it was convenient to have her see to things. Although she enjoyed pretending there was more to the relationship, he’d learned at a young age to live without affection and intimacy. It may be a lonely life to some, but it was the one he desired. He snapped his gloves against his thigh impatiently.

  “Go back to your sewing, woman.” His voice was menacingly low, but easily heard above the whinnying of the horses that stood saddled and ready, as anxious to be back on the road as his men. “I will have no more of this.”

  Releasing his arm, she backed away. Her gaze lowered. “I’m sorry, m’lord. Please forgive my insistence at your expense.”

  He narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. This shift from aggressor to victim did not sit well with him. She was truly a master at manipulation.

  “You leave me no choice. Perhaps some time at the castle in Rouen would be more to your liking?” Her eyes flashed. He’d hit his mark. Court life was not what she desired when she could be free from oversight here. “Tell me your choice.”

  She huffed. “I will return to my room.” John watched her back just long enough to ensure her obedience before pulling on his gloves and facing his men. At attention now, they awaited only a word from him to mount and be off.

  “Oh.”

  Barely able to hide his annoyance at hearing her voice again, John turned slowly toward Abigail.

  “What?” He answered her through clenched teeth.

  “When will you return?”

  “I will not be returning.” If she’d hoped for a different answer, she was disappointed yet again.

  John mounted his horse. His men followed suit. The large retinue headed out through the gates that protected the only place John called home. He didn’t look back at the woman or his manor. Any attachment he had here was tenuous at best as every soldier knew. A fighting man lived from battle to battle, laying his head where his latest conquest was until, God willing, his life ended in honor on the field.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Rowena stilled her hand, a long length of brown hair looped around it. Seated on the stool beside her small table, she tensed as all the sound around her seemed to stop. Disbelief filled her.

  “You did what?” She measured each word as she spoke, her heart sinking in despair.

  The younger woman lowered her eyes, cowering in front of her. Her words were barely above a whisper when she answered. “I told them to chop it down.”

  “Why, Joan?” Releasing her hair, Rowena stood slowly beside her friend. The betrayal strangled her. “Who told you to do such a thing?” Rowena took a steadying breath. “Go tell them you were wrong.”

  “It’s too late, m’lady.” The woman virtually shook and yet Rowena had no words of comfort for her.

  “No,” Rowena whispered as her mind went unbidden to the day her parents had returned from their trip to Jerusalem. They were so young and alive.

  “A tree?” Rowena at eight years old had been more than a little disappointed by the present her parents brought her from their faraway travels.

  “It was no easy trip either.” Her father’s voice echoed in her mind as if he were still with her. Tears slid down Rowena’s cheeks at the memory. She had nourished that tree alongside her mother until the woman had died two years later.

  “Go, Joan.” Rowena’s voice broke with desperation as she ordered her maidservant to do her bidding. “Let us hope it is not too late.” Joan sprinted from the room. Perhaps there was a chance the cypress tree could still be saved.

  Alone in her bedchamber, Rowena rubbed the crease between her eyes. None of the treasured items from her parents had survived the Norman invasion. Why would they blatantly cut down the tree her mother had lovingly planted? Maybe for the same reason they tried to wash the only remaining Persian rugs with water or the well-worn silken robes with harsh lye soap, and overwater the fig trees. Where she had once found solace from these little mementos of her life before, their absence now left her with only emptiness.

  Gone were the comforting arms of a family that loved her and wanted only the best for her. Gone was her dream of finding a strong Saxon man who would love her and give her children. Gone was the hope for a country at peace. Her uncle was the rightful successor to the throne by King Edward’s deathbed decree but the warmongers from across the channel had pushed through their own desires.

  Desire! Who needed it? Deep set brown eyes flashed in her mind and she squeezed the brush in her hand until the bristles jabbed into her flesh. Bastards, all of them. Those eyes were the eyes that haunted her nights. Too many years ago, the man had taken away her chance for the life she’d dreamt of. Marrying John of Normandy had made everything else impossible. Even the people who knew her best kept their distance from her after that. They knew she was no longer in charge and showed her little respect. No doubt they questioned her loyalties.

  The idea of him touching her had repulsed her then…well maybe not repulsed, and yet when he’d left, leaving her a virgin still, she’d realized he’d condemned her to a life of total solitude. With all her family dead, now she didn’t even have the chance for her own children.

  Forcing her mind to stop obsessing on what she had no control of, Rowena determinedly headed down to the garden. Her small hope was dashed when she saw Joan crying by the garden gate. Her eyes filled and the past eight years of useless existence flashed before her eyes. Running to the felled tree, she paid no heed to the dirt that covered her as she threw herself against the exposed rings, each jagged hewn threatening to pierce her through. Deep inside, the tiny thread that
had held her together these long years snapped. Dead, everything that mattered in her life was dead. So why did she have to suffer alone with no hope, no comfort, no one to care about her or love her and never even a chance for happiness?

  Gentle arms surrounded her and she yielded to the strength of the red-haired man who came to kneel beside her.

  “Shhh, Rowena, shhhh.” Arthur’s voice was so comforting, her body leaned in toward him and a longing for any connection tightened in her chest. The smell of sweat and leather was strong, but she just wanted to have him comfort her as she knew he longed to. She wanted release from this insane life of total solitude, of people who did her bidding at their own leisure. Her proud Saxon family was gone. Now she was married to a Norman. Where did her loyalty lie?

  “Arthur.” She sobbed his name. “I can’t continue like this.” His big hand stroked her hair and held her tighter. “Why am I still alive when all around me are dead?”

  “Hush.” His overtures were meant to comfort her but his quiet gasp told her she’d wounded him with her words. She didn’t want to hurt one of her few remaining allies. He was her only connection to the goings-on of her family property. The only one who patiently answered her endless questions about her property now that she was left uninformed.

  Arthur had been ordered to protect the castle by the Normans once he’d sworn his fealty to the king, but she believed Arthur when he told her he truly stayed out of love for her. It was an unrequited love. She was married, after all.

  A hysterical laugh made its way up her throat. The virgin wife. The irony of having been wed to a man that left her at the first opportunity was too much. William of Normandy had commanded the nuptials for the good of England, so he’d said. He’d professed the desire to have Saxon and Norman blood mixed so that England could live in prosperity and peace. In order for that to happen, her absent husband would have had to show his face and then some.

  Arthur tensed as the laugh erupted and echoed against the stone fence that surrounded the garden. The few people that stood around them shifted uneasily at the sound. His arms tightened around her, the laugh muffled against his shoulder as she fought to gain back her control.

  “Rowena,” he said her name like a caress but his beard scraped against her cheek. “Others are watching. Please keep your dignity.”

  She knew he was looking out for her, but it felt like a slap in the face. She wanted to pull back and scream at him that she had no dignity left. She’d lost that long ago.

  Taking a shaky breath, she pulled herself to standing and looked at the devastation of the tree that had symbolized her last link to who she could have been. If only things had turned out differently. Arthur stood beside her, wearily watching her.

  “Burn it.” She ordered it with a strong voice while the tears coursed down her face. Holding her head high, she turned back the way she’d come and paid no heed to those who’d witnessed her meltdown and now stepped aside to let the lady of the manor pass.

  John peeled the leather riding gloves from his hand and shifted the stiff chainmail away from his chest, easing its heaviness. A large cypress tree lay on the ground, surrounded by some castle folk when he’d first entered the well-tended garden. There had been the one woman covered with mud and sweat. He thought he’d stumbled upon some ancient pagan ritual with them grouped seemingly in anticipation around the tree. That wouldn’t have surprised him. These Saxons were such barbarians.

  He’d had to get his ear adjusted to the lilting sound of their English words before he could make out what they were saying. He missed the sweet melodious sound of his own language every time he came back to England but truth to tell, he hadn’t been back to this place for many years.

  The sound of a woman’s hysterical laughter had drawn him into the garden. He’d tensed, ready to find perhaps a crazed woman but the lithe body that pushed past him, head held high, did not appear crazed to him. His men-at-arms appeared behind him as she shoved rudely past, but John held his hand up. It didn’t matter. This treatment was nothing compared to what he anticipated when he finally found his “wife”.

  Arthur approached the group of well-armed men. Recognition took a minute.

  “My lord.” The red head dipped down in respect. “Welcome home. We were not expecting you.”

  John fought down the urge to laugh. Should he have sent word so the little wife could sharpen her dagger? “Arthur is it?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “We have been traveling non-stop and are near overcome with exhaustion. Can you see to the needs of my men? I will also want to meet with those managing my holdings here.”

  “Certainly, my lord.” Arthur signaled to the castle staff whose names John didn’t even know before turning back. “Will you be staying long?”

  Sensing the desire for a negative answer, John frowned. “This is my home, Arthur. I will be staying indefinitely.”

  He didn’t miss the fleeting expression of anger before the man bowed and walked away.

  His men followed Arthur, all but Peter who came to stand beside John. They both watched as Arthur led the group of Norman knights through the garden gate.

  “That was strange.” The tall, blonde man scratched his nose as he spoke.

  “I thought so, too. What does that man care if I stay or go?”

  “I’m afraid the answer is plain. Even after all this time and prosperity that the Saxons have experienced under our king, they still resent our being here.” John’s gut wrenched at the thought. And what would Rowena be like then? Here amongst her own people, festering with continued resentment, she would certainly be a shrew or worse. Wanting to avoid the long-awaited reconciliation, John changed the subject abruptly. “I need a bath.” He turned, wrinkled his nose at his companion and added, “And so do you!”

  When the two headed back through the gate, they passed a man entering the garden with an axe. John’s curiosity got the best of him and he stopped to watch. The man went to the felled tree and started breaking it into smaller chunks.

  “That was a beautiful tree,” John said under his breath as he approached the man, Peter close behind. “What goes on here?”

  John’s tone was friendly but the man jumped at the question.

  “I am doing as I was ordered.” The man’s eyes were wide with fear, his bushy gray eyebrows nearly touching his hairline. “I wasn’t the one who chopped it down.”

  John was confused by this reaction. “Was there something wrong with the tree?”

  “I don’t know.” The man stumbled to stand up, his hand shaking as he held the axe. “What would you have me do, my lord?”

  “What is your name?”

  “Perceval.”

  John couldn’t miss the man’s defensiveness. Turning to Peter, he wasn’t surprised by his own feelings of unease mirrored there. “Well, Perceval, who ordered the tree chopped down?” The pinched face of his sixteen year old bride flashed in his mind. “Was it Lady Rowena?”

  “Oh, no, my lord.” The man looked to the left and right, clearly uneasy before he continued, “It was her mother’s tree after all.” His voice was lowered and John sensed reverence in the use of the title.

  “Her mother still lives then?”

  “No, my lord.” Perceval’s mouth slammed shut. His thin lips pressed tightly together as if he had said quite enough.

  His continued silence confirmed it. “She’s dead then?”

  The man nodded.

  “But it wasn’t Rowena who wanted the tree taken down?”

  He shook his head.

  “Is Rowena here?”

  The man’s jaw dropped unexpectedly as if he’d asked if she’d grown a second head. John turned away to hide his smirk at the comical expression.

  Peter stepped forward. “Where can we find her then?”

  At the sudden tightness in his chest, John’s humor fled. He was not ready to confront the woman. He didn’t care to know where she was or even what she was doing. Putting his hand on his friend�
��s arm, he answered for himself. “I’m sure she is within and very busy right now. Thank you for your assistance, Perceval.”

  John turned abruptly, and Peter was left to catch up with John.

  “Forgive me if I spoke out of turn. Did you not come to see her?”

  “I’m not ready for that battle just yet.” John felt like a coward and wanted to redirect his friend before the man asked too many questions. “Check that the horses are taken care of.” He didn’t turn back to see the look on Peter’s face. The man asked too many questions. John didn’t need it common knowledge that he had defied the king by not consummating the marriage. That was not the way to go about mixing Saxon and Norman blood.

  Heading in through the nearest door of the castle, he found himself in the kitchen. The sweet smell of baking bread and roasting meat beckoned to him. His stomach growled in response. The room was dark except for the firelight and it took a minute for his eyes to adjust. The huge size of the room bespoke of the size of the castle he would now need to call home. The nameless workers scattered within spoke of the challenge he’d face winning them over as the new Norman lord. Winning over his wife would be the biggest challenge, but one he’d prefer to continue to avoid.

  CHAPTER THREE

  When the Norman knight strode into the kitchen, Rowena’s breath caught in her throat. It was her husband. He’d filled out since she’d last seen him. Pain filled her heart. She turned to leave but halted at the sound of his voice.

  “You, there.” His commanding tone raised her hackles as she turned to face him. She couldn’t help but be impressed by his stature and the way he commanded the room when he entered. When she saw he was speaking to the cook, she let out the breath she’d been holding. She continued through the Great Hall that was now full of Norman soldiers, their guttural voices polluting the air with that dreaded language. Her fists clenched at her side, she headed toward the stairs. A burly man stepped in front of her, blocking her way. He was barely out of his youth, still a boy really, and her resentment grew.