“This is surprising,” he remarked to his brothers as they left the meeting. “I understood winter normally keeps the Welsh in their mountain hideaways. Perhaps they’re changing their strategy? I propose you both take most of the men and ride to Oswestry. I’ll rejoin you once I’ve inspected Ellesmere.”
He watched the small army ride off towards the west, then ordered his remaining men to set their mounts in motion. After only a few miles they suddenly caught sight, as they neared Ruyton, of a group of riders galloping west.
“Gervais,” he shouted excitedly to his second-in-command, “I would wager those are Welsh rebels, fleeing Ruyton.”
“Oui, you’re probably right. We could give chase. Our mounts are still fresh. They have some way to go to the border, and won’t be expecting pursuit.”
“Give the command to pursue.”
The veteran Norman soldiers eagerly spurred their horses, and had closed the gap on the Welsh band significantly before the rebels became aware they were being chased. The lead rider, a mountain of a man, turned and saw them. He alerted the others, and they increased their speed and split up. The moorland terrain was rugged. One false move could result in a horse’s hoof plunging into a pothole in the rolling landscape.
Suddenly, the leader’s horse lost its footing, and animal and rider went down. With incredible agility, as if it were an everyday occurrence, the huge warrior quickly found his feet, and had his dagger out immediately. One Norman soldier fell from his horse with a bone-chilling scream as the barbarian slashed the dagger across his belly, almost severing the lad in two with the power of his thrust.
Ram’s warrior blood rushed to his head. “Gervais, continue the pursuit. I’ll deal with this ruffian,” he yelled, reining in his snorting horse, dropping from the saddle and unsheathing his sword in one fluid movement. The men continued on after the fleeing rebels.
Ram yanked off his helmet, threw it to the ground, and faced the barbarian, noting with surprise the man didn’t look afraid. Ram felt he had the advantage. His opponent had no sword, but he’d seen what the man had done with his dagger and would have to be wary.
Perhaps sending the other men on wasn’t a good idea.
The two warriors squared off—the tall Norman noble trying to make the thrust with his sword that would disarm the rebel, the powerful Welsh barbarian attempting to plunge his dagger into a momentarily unguarded part of the other man’s body. It occurred to Ram he rarely came face to face with an enemy who matched him in height.
“I am Rambaud de Montbryce, Earl of Ellesmere. On the authority of King William, I command your surrender,” Ram declared with calm assurance.
Is that a smile on the barbarian’s face?
“I am Rhodri ap Owain, Prince of Powwydd. Ellesmere has an Earl, you say? The Norman bastard isn’t my king, not anyone’s king yet, therefore I cannot and will not surrender to you.”
Ram thrust again and Rhodri made to deflect the blow. Sword and dagger became braced together as the two powerful men struggled, their intense gazes locked on each other. Ram suddenly used a well practiced manoeuvre and pulled away from the deadlock, taking Rhodri unawares, and his sword flicked the dagger out of the Welshman’s hand. Ram advanced on the unarmed man, again offering him the chance to surrender.
“You don’t understand, Norman invader. Welshmen don’t surrender,” Rhodri sneered. Suddenly he lunged at Ram, knocking the wind out of his body, and Honneur out of his hand. As he fell, Ram felt a painful blow to the back of his head.
I survived Hastings to fall here?
His knees buckled and he reeled into oblivion.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Ram didn’t recognize the unsmiling face of the woman bending over him, but it showed concern. Weren’t the angels supposed to be smiling when he reached paradise? He sank back into the murky haze.
“If I’m in heaven, why does my head feel like it’s broken?” he murmured groggily when he awoke some time later.
“That’s because you’re not dead, milord.”
“Gervais?” he muttered, half opening one eye. His Second stood at the foot of the bed on which he lay.
“Oui, milord. I’m relieved you’re awake. Non, don’t try to get up. Milady says you must rest. You had a blow to the head.”
“Milady? Who is milady?”
“She’s the mistress of this manor, milord. We brought you here because it was close and we were afraid you wouldn’t make it to Ellesmere. This is Shelfhoc Manor, near Ruyton, and milady is Lady Ascha Woolgar.”
“I don’t understand what happened,” Ram said with great exasperation.
“Milord, it’s not good to get agitated. When the barbarian lunged and knocked you off balance, you hit your head on a sharp rock. The wound bled a great deal. You have a large gash on the back of your head. We were on the way back and I could see what had happened, but couldn’t get there in time to aid you. The rebel’s horse wasn’t hurt, and he was able to remount and flee. I had to make a decision to either follow them, or help you. We’d killed two of their men, but three of ours had fallen. I didn’t think it wise to pursue them into Wales.”
Ram felt like an incompetent fool. So much for the prowess of the great warrior Rambaud le Noir. The scourge of the border, the threat to peace had been at his mercy. He wondered why the Prince of Powwydd hadn’t just finished him off.
“You did the right thing, Gervais. He must have laughed his way back to Wales. Who is this Woolgar woman?” he demanded, his head throbbing. He remembered Mabelle’s soothing touch on his aching temples.
“She’s a Saxon noblewoman, milord.”
He dozed off again and awoke later, sensing a presence. He didn’t know how much time had passed.
“Gervais?”
“I’m Lady Ascha Woolgar. This is my home,” a soft voice replied.
Ram opened his bleary eyes and saw the woman he’d previously thought was a vision. She stood beside the bed, and looked to be about the same age as he. What he could see of her hair, at the edges of the wimple, was brown and curly. She was slender and her long thin fingers held a bowl and spoon. She had a look of defeat.
“I’ve brought you some nourishing vegetable broth,” she said, without emotion. “You should eat only broth for a few days, until you feel more recovered.”
She was polite but didn’t smile, and he sensed she didn’t welcome his intrusion into her life.
“My Lady Woolgar, I thank you for allowing my men to bring me here.” There was no warmth in his voice.
“They didn’t give me much choice, my Lord Montbryce.”
“I regret—”
She raised her hand. “Don’t worry. It’s a reality I must accept. I’m a Saxon, a widow. You’re a Norman. You’re the conqueror, I’m the conquered.”
He had to keep his wits about him. He struggled sit up but dizziness overwhelmed him and his stomach roiled. “My Lady, we’re Normans, not savages like the murderous Danes. Our King, your King, wishes peace and prosperity for his people, Saxon and Norman.”
As he mouthed the words, he was certain there would be much bloodshed ahead as William embarked on his plan for the total subjugation of these lands. He wondered why he should bother to justify all this to a woman, especially a Saxon.
She bowed her head slightly. “I’ll let you finish your broth yourself. A manservant will see to your needs.”
An elderly man entered a few minutes later, assisted Ram to stand so he could relieve himself, and then removed the chamber pot. He too was polite, but the undercurrent of Saxon resentment was palpable. The effort exhausted Ram, making him more dizzy, and he slept again, relieved he had managed not to retch.
Later a warm hand on his forehead woke him. It felt good.
“Mabelle,” he croaked, still half asleep. He raised his hand and lay it atop the one on his forehead.
“It’s Lady Ascha.”
Ram’s eyes shot open, sending pain shooting through his head. He quickly removed his hand from hers, both
ered he’d found the warmth of it comforting. Ascha seemed to pay no attention to the abrupt movement.
“There is no fever. You’re fortunate, Lord Montbryce.”
Ram’s head throbbed and his throat was dry. “Please, Lady Ascha, my name is Rambaud,” he said wearily.
“As you wish, Lord Rambaud. Who is Mabelle?”
“She’s my betrothed—in Normandie. When I felt your touch, I was half asleep and I thought it was she.”
Surely I’m not blushing?
“Were you dreaming of her?”
“Perhaps I was,” he admitted, thinking it a strange question.
“You’re not a married man?”
“Non, not yet,” he said with regret.
For a few minutes she gazed down at him, not with animosity but with a strange sort of longing. He felt uncomfortable, and wished he wasn’t lying in a bed.
“I don’t dream of my husband,” she whispered, and her eyes glazed with unhappiness.
“You told me you’re a widow.”
“Yes. My husband was a warrior, a thane of the king. He’s dead.”
A feeling of dread crept over Ram. Many Saxon nobles had died on the field at Hastings that terrible day.
“You don’t want to ask me, Lord Montbryce, so I’ll tell you, since there’s no shame in it. My husband, Sir Caedmon Woolgar, was a housecarl to King Harold. He died at Hastings. At least, we assume he did, since he hasn’t returned home.”
Ram thought of the mass grave where Harold’s housecarls lay buried. They’d been determined to fight to the last man. Could the Saxon giant who’d come close to removing his head have been Sir Caedmon Woolgar? He saw no point in avoiding the truth.
“I fought at Hastings,” he said forthrightly.
“Yes,” she replied quietly, smiling an enigmatic smile.
Convinced though he was of the righteousness of William’s conquest, this woman’s plight brought home to him the often terrible consequences of war for those left behind. Men might fight and die and glorify what they did, but there was no doubt women were left to bear the burden of sorrow, and the weight of castles and manors with no man to defend them or provide.
None of this would have happened if Harold hadn’t broken his oath.
By the next day, the dizziness had abated, and he left his bed. The manservant came to help him dress, and informed him Lady Woolgar would receive him in her solar, to which the man directed him. Ascha was seated on a wooden bench by the window, the oiled covering drawn back, despite the chilly air. The embroidery on her lap lay untouched as she gazed out at the surrounding lands. A maidservant sat by her side, sewing.
“Leave us, Enid,” she said softly when she saw Ram enter.
“Lady Ascha, I trust you’re well today?” he ventured.
She didn’t look up at him. “As well as can be expected.”
“I would offer my condolences, but we both know it would sound hollow. I was your husband’s enemy. I strove to kill him and his comrades. I don’t regret it. I could have been the one to deal his death blow.”
Had her expression softened slightly?
She looked him in the eye. “I don’t lay blame at your door. My husband was a fierce warrior. He gloried in war. He died doing what he was born for. In a conflict there must be winners and losers. Sir Caedmon wasn’t on the winning side this time.”
He waited a few minutes. Those sad grey eyes had momentarily distracted him. “What of this manor, Lady Ascha? I don’t wish to add to your burdens, but it’s our King’s wish that we strengthen this border region against the Welsh. You’re not in a position of strength here, through no fault of your own. Many would covet this manor. Rhodri ap Owain was close by, as you know. Gervais tells me you hold more than five hides of land, and that there’s a parish church, a kitchen and a fortress gate. While you do have a rampart and ditch, it wouldn’t hold off a large attack.”
She fidgeted nervously. “I don’t know what will happen, Lord Rambaud, the grief and uncertainty is too new. I’m a woman alone.”
She sobbed, so quietly he wasn’t immediately aware she was crying. The embroidery fell to the floor. He strode across to sit by her side, hesitant to take her hand, not knowing how to bring comfort. Why did he want to?
He retrieved the embroidery, but as he returned it to her lap, their fingers touched. She seized his hand and gripped it with both hers. Trembling, she leaned into him and he nervously put his arm around her shoulders, trying to bring comfort.
As the sobs wracked her slender body, the wimple slipped from her hair, and brown curls tumbled to her hips.
She’s younger than I thought. And beautiful.
His body responded. He ran his fingers through her hair. She appeared embarrassed by the crack that had appeared in her armour, but he continued to comfort her, and soon her weeping subsided. She was aware of his obvious physical reaction to her. He cleared his throat, extricated his hand, withdrew his arm, and stood.
“Lady Ascha, I’ll place you and your manor under my protection. I don’t intend to take your manor for myself, but others will no doubt try. I’ll station a contingent of my men-at-arms to protect you, and provide a steward to help you manage your estate.”
He suspected fellow Normans might be more of a threat than the Welsh, but said nothing of this.
She stared at him, open mouthed. “I thank you for your unexpected compassion but I can’t accept. I’ve nothing to give you in return, Lord Montbryce.”
“I want nothing in return, Lady Ascha. If my future wife was in a similar position, I’d like to think some champion would protect her.”
His conversation with Ascha started Ram thinking about Mabelle. How would she feel if he fell in battle? If he’d fallen at Hastings? She would likely never be in the same perilous position as Ascha because he had brothers to protect her, but how would she feel? Would she mourn him? He’d not seen her since September, and then only briefly. He needed to get home. Had the message he’d survived got through? He resolved to leave the next day to inspect Ellesmere, and then make his way home to Normandie.
He took his leave and returned to his chamber.
***
Ascha liked the sound of the word champion but not Ram’s reference to his future wife. She’d been drawn to this attractive Norman warrior deposited into her care. He had a sensitivity her brutish husband had lacked. She’d held on to his hands like a rock in her sea of fear and uncertainty, and the unexpected intimacy of his arm around her shoulder had sent a warm shiver through her body.
And he’s not married yet.
***
“I wish you weren’t leaving. Head wounds can be dangerous and the effects can linger. You should rest here longer, Lord Rambaud,” Ascha cajoled the next morning, when he told her of his decision to leave forthwith. Now she wasn’t cool and detached. Her hand lay on his arm as she spoke, and she looked into his eyes.
Ram looked back, surprised at the intimacy of the gesture, and the use of his given name. Desire flickered in the grey depths.
She’s lonely. She desires me.
The thought aroused and dismayed him. She was an attractive woman who’d been without a man for a considerable time. What would it matter if he gave them both a few pleasures? It wouldn’t obligate either of them to the other. Her eyes told him that.
Perhaps a kiss? What harm could a kiss do?
He’d been without a woman for months. Since meeting Mabelle, he’d lost interest in Joleyne. In these dangerous new lands he could be killed before he ever made it home to Normandie. Since Hastings he seemed to be constantly hard, constantly needy. Hugh was right.
“Lady Ascha,” he murmured as he bent his head to kiss her.
His lips brushed hers as she breathed, “Lord Rambaud.”
They kissed. The blood rushed to his groin. His tongue coaxed her lips and she allowed him entry. The kiss was sweet and gentle, and she responded to him as he pressed his arousal to her body. “I didn’t love my husband,” she whispered. �
�War was his life. He didn’t understand the needs of a woman.”
Intense emotions, pent up since Hastings, swept over him—the terror of the battle, the horror and stench of the bloodshed and broken bodies, the sickening brutality, the constant homesickness, the exhaustion of travel, the heavy responsibilities put upon him by his Duke, the unbearable aching for his infuriating Mabelle, the frustration of Rhodri’s escape, the concern for Hugh—all conspired to render him senseless, his only instinct a need to possess and be possessed. He held a woman in his arms who’d admitted never knowing the pleasures of passion. It was more than he could resist. He wanted to tear the clothes from her body and take her on the floor, to liberate her from the sexual frustration she’d endured.
He ran his hands over her body, along the swell of her breast, the curve of her hip, the flesh of her thigh. He gathered her up, intending to carry her to the chamber where she’d tended him. He felt a momentary dizziness as he rose, but braced his legs and steadied himself. She curled her arms around his neck and rested her head against his chest. Once in the chamber, he laid her on his bed. She undressed, her eyes fixed on his face. He helped her, then tore off his own clothes. She gasped and licked her lips when she saw his rigid manhood, and her eyes burned with wanting.
He didn’t have to spend long preparing her. As a spasm of release tore through her body, he raised himself above her, positioned his shaft at her opening and groaned as he slid inside. They quickly found each other’s rhythm and she smiled, her hands reaching up to his chest, thumbs brushing his male nipples. In a moment of clarity he rasped, “Have no fear Ascha, I’ll spill myself outside your body.”
She dug her nails into his shoulders. “No, Rambaud.”
“But—”
Her hands went to his hips and she gripped him fiercely, pulling his body to hers. “No! Fill me! I can’t keep you. I want every bit of you I can now. These moments are all I have.”
The intensity of her words inflamed him. He shuddered and revelled verbally in his euphoria as his seed entered her body.
Later, as his wits slowly returned, an image of Mabelle lying by the lake, barely covered by her chemise, rose up in his mind. It was so vivid that he abruptly rolled away from Ascha.
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