by Regan Walker
“Sir Maurin told me that Morcar and his older brother, Edwin, still the Earl of Mercia, have submitted to the Norman king.”
“If ‘tis true,” said Serena, “I doubt Edwin is sincere. He cannot love serving such a one.”
“I suppose ye are right,” Cassie said sadly.
“Even if Morcar were to defy the Norman king,” Serena speculated, “I cannot imagine him taking me to wife with Talisand given to the Bastard’s knight. I no longer have a dowry.”
“But he cared for ye, m’lady. I remember the way he looked at ye.”
“So much has changed,” lamented Serena. “While an English woman cannot be forced to wed a man she’ll not have, it is not so with the Normans. The Norman king can force me to accept the Red Wolf if I am discovered. He has only to consummate the relationship.” The thought caused Serena to shiver. “Then, too, Morcar is young and impatient. He may have set his eyes on another.”
“Morcar is a Mercian,” Cassie encouraged. “That has to mean something. It was his brother Edwin who posed the idea of a match between the two of ye to yer father. Me mother heard them talking.”
“It was to make me happy my father delayed a betrothal.”
“Yea,” said Cassie, “and to satisfy a lonely man’s heart. Me mother told me he’d not send ye away before he must.”
Serena had thought little of Morcar in the past months. In truth, with the coming of the Red Wolf, thoughts of any other man rarely came to her mind. She had not forgotten the kiss the Norman had stolen. Or the feel of his hard chest pressed against her breasts. He was a seasoned warrior, virile and strong. By his sword, the Red Wolf had gained a place of favor with the Norman king and was admired by his men. He seemed so much more a man than the young Mercian earl or even Oswine.
The handmaiden’s eyes suddenly grew bright. “What about Eadric? Yer father liked him well enough. I have heard our men talking about him. They say he was able to keep his lands in the south since he wasna at Hastings.”
“I have heard the Normans speak of him in the hall, too,” said Serena, thinking of the conversation she’d overheard. “They call him Eadric the Wild since he stays in the woods with his men, fighting some Norman to the south. The Welsh king supports him, according to Rhodri.” Serena remembered Eadric, the wealthy Saxon thegn from Shropshire, who had come to Talisand seeking her hand. A tall warrior with broad shoulders and a full beard. “Though I cannot imagine Eadric would want to take a bride if he is living with his men in the woods. And, Cassie, if I were to come out in the open, as I must to wed Morcar or Eadric, think how the Red Wolf would react. He would be incensed at losing what he sees as his. Pride would demand he hunt me down, even if only to hold me prisoner. No, it would not do for me to marry a Saxon while still in England for I have been given by the Norman king to one of his own. You see? I must leave and seek my future in Scotland.”
“Yea, I suppose ’tis true. I dinna want ye to go. But it seems yer only future at Talisand is as the Red Wolf’s bride.”
“I shall never choose to be his wife,” Serena insisted, all the while shivering at the prospect, whether from anticipation or dread she could not say.
Chapter 7
Geoffroi was just leaving the stables the next day on his way to the hall, hungry for the midday meal, when he heard the boy Eric shouting to one of the cottars who had come to the manor to sell his wares. “Dunn, did ye hear the news? Rhodri has returned to Talisand!”
The cottar looked up from his cart of kettles. “Has he now? When?”
“A few days ago. He has said he will play for us tonight after the evening meal. Steward Hunstan told me all who would come are invited. ’Twill be almost like it was ere the Normans came.”
By now Geoffroi knew enough English to understand their conversation. At his approach, the boy’s face turned scarlet as he realized the Red Wolf’s man overheard what he was saying. “Eric, are you talking about the Welsh bard who was here before?”
“Yea, sir.” The boy’s posture relaxed, possibly because he was grateful not to be scolded.
“I should like to hear this bard entertain us in the hall this eve. Is there a singer at Talisand who could join him?”
“Well…” he hesitated, “Sarah can sing. She and the bard often sang together.”
“Indeed? You may tell Sarah her new master would have her sing with the bard tonight.” Geoff had observed the way Ren looked at the servant girl. At least her singing would take his mind from the missing Lady Serena about whom he had brooded overmuch. And some entertainment for the men would not go amiss. “I will look forward to hearing her myself.”
“I will tell her, sir. Ye willna be disappointed. She has the voice of an angel!”
* * *
Occupied with plans for the castle all afternoon, Renaud rose from the trestle table in his chamber, comfortable with his decision. He had finally chosen the site for the castle, though in truth the location had been in his mind all along. The same bend in the river that protected Talisand’s manor would become the source of his castle’s moat. And the motte that would rise from the yard to form the foundation for the timbered structure would look down on the manor. From the top of the new donjon, he and his men would have a view of the entire countryside.
A knock sounded, interrupting his musings.
“Enter.”
His chamber door opened and Geoff strolled in. “Are you still wanting to review the changes to the stables?”
“Aye, I’m long ready.”
“Then I’ve good news. The work is done. Sir Niel awaits your examination of the new building. I think you will be pleased. There is room for all the horses and the groom and stable boys.”
“Splendid!” He strode to the door, eager for a chance to stretch his legs. “We will have need of it as I fear Talisand will have harsh winters.”
Renaud descended the stairs, Geoff on his heels. Looking into the hall as they passed, Renaud saw the long tables crowded with knights and men-at-arms sitting down to the evening meal. He would delay his dinner to see the new stables.
The smell of freshly cut wood filled Renaud’s nostrils as he entered the new structure, along with the scent of hay and horse, familiar smells to a knight.
“This will serve us well,” he said to the young Sir Niel, standing inside the large open door where he waited for his lord. Niel had been Renaud’s squire before Mathieu and knighted only a few years before Hastings. The scar on his jaw was a lasting reminder of his bravery in that battle, but with his light brown hair and blue eyes, he was still attractive to woman, mayhap more so.
Fresh hay had already been laid in the stalls and stable boys were leading in some of the horses. Renaud strolled down the middle aisle, taking in the new construction that provided more than a dozen timbered partitions on each side. As he walked along, his gaze drifted up to the second level where a large hayloft had been added.
“There’s enough room above to house the stable boys,” said Sir Niel, “and a separate chamber for the groom below.”
Renaud rested his hand on the knight’s shoulder. “The work appears sound, the structure proof against the cold drafts of winter. The men have done well.”
“Your knights and their squires are content the horses will nay freeze come Christmastide, my lord,” said a grinning Sir Niel.
Renaud nodded as Mathieu joined them. “I’ve already brought your horses in, my lord,” said the squire. “They are fed and groomed and in the far stalls. We have oats aplenty.”
“Good work, Mathieu. And where is my young page?”
“Polishing your sword and cleaning your shield, and before that he helped with the horses. He’s a good lad, Jamie is.”
“Aye, he is. See that you both eat. The meal has begun.” Geoff cast a longing look toward the hall, causing Renaud to add, “And have Maggie send some food for Sir Geoffroi and me. We will eat here.”
“Yea, sir.” The squire dipped his head and took his slim body off toward the armory.
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Renaud turned to Niel. “You as well. Go eat your supper. The groom and stable boys can answer any questions we might have.” He wanted the opportunity to get to know the lads who’d been retained to care for the knights’ horses.
“It feels like those times we rode with Duke William,” said Geoff, when some while later, they sat on crates eating their meal.
“Aye, it seems a familiar pastime,” agreed Renaud.
An hour later, Renaud had finished the meal Maggie had sent him. The rabbit stew had been tasty. And the conversation he and Geoff had shared with the stable lads had filled him with excitement. He would breed Belasco, his gray stallion, to some of the English horses for a stronger stable of horses.
Content the new stable met all his requirements, he stood to go. “You can release the carpenters to turn their attention to William’s castle,” he told Geoff. “Come, let us leave the lads to the horses. I have a craving for a drink.”
“Aye, that would be most welcome.”
Renaud crossed the yard, hearing faint music coming from the hall. Opening the door he was confronted with a voice from heaven itself. The hall was dark save for the light from the central hearth and the torches still burning at the edges of the large rectangular room. He and Geoff stood in the shadows, listening.
Aethel, who had apparently been watching for him, walked in their direction carrying tankards of ale. Her brown eyes conveyed the same invitation Renaud had seen before, but gaining no different reaction from him, she took her leave. Renaud drank deeply having grown accustomed to the dark brew and turned his attention to the picture before him.
Sarah sat on a stool in front of the hearth, singing in a foreign tongue. It might be Welsh as he had heard the language before. Her long brown plait lay over one shoulder, drawing his attention as she inclined her head with the song. The light of the fire reflected on her face, rendering her skin the color of honey. Facing her, on another stool, sat a man with curly black hair and short-cropped beard. He was clothed in the colors of the forest over which he’d donned a brown leather jerkin. In his arms he held a small harp, his fingers moving rapidly over the strings as he plucked a lively tune.
A circle of children sat at their feet, many with chins resting in their upturned palms, their elbows braced on their crossed legs while they listened with rapt attention.
Sarah’s voice lifted high then dipped low, sending notes flowing about the room like magical ribbons of sound. When the man’s tenor voice joined hers, the two voices entwined like lovers as they smiled at the children and at each other.
Renaud watched transfixed. The servant girl was more beautiful, more animated than he had seen her before. Her hand reached out to caress the cheek of a child. There was love in her eyes. She will make a good mother.
Without turning his head, he asked Geoff, “Who is that singing with Sarah?”
“It must be the Welsh bard, Rhodri. I had heard he arrived and intended to provide us with entertainment. We were so consumed by the work on the stables I forgot to mention it. You remember, Ren. He is the one who was here before at the old lord’s invitation. The boy Eric told me the girl had the voice of an angel. He was nay wrong.”
“You understand the Welsh tongue—of what do they sing?”
“’Tis a traveling song. She sings of the beauty of the hills and valleys and the adventure of the road. He joins her, but sings of the love left behind.”
Renaud could not dismiss the thought that troubled him. What servant would understand the Welsh tongue well enough to sing it? Had the bard taught her whilst their heads rested on the same pillow? He frowned. “It seems the Welshman taught the people more than the bow.”
“‘Tis a bit of talent he has,” said Geoff. “I have never heard the ballad sung so well.”
Renaud’s eyes narrowed as he continued to gaze at the two singing, their heads close together like two lovers exchanging endearments. The Welshman gazed intently at Sarah, and she returned his regard. Clearly they shared a great affection for each other. So it was not only the old lord’s son for whom she made room in her heart. Did she also make room for the Welshman in her bed? Notwithstanding her protests, he wondered if she was a maiden still. How could a woman so lovely be left alone for so long?
As her voice rose with the song, Sarah smiled at the children sitting at her feet. He had never seen her smile like that. It was a dazzling smile. She was beautiful, bewitching—happy. The lovely sound of her clear voice wrapped around him like a warm cloak, filling him with a sudden desire to possess her.
Renaud’s body tensed like hard steel when he looked at the faces of his men. They were enthralled with the English servant girl, whose skin glowed in the firelight, and whose eyes danced with the song. A wave of jealousy flowed over him.
When the song ended and another began, Renaud set his face in firm resolve and turned to Geoff. “Ask the seneschal to send up my bath and some wine. When the singing ends, have Sarah sent to my room. I would have a word with her.”
“Aye, Ren. I will see it done.”
Geoff turned to carry out the orders, and Renaud said over his shoulder, “See that none of the men touch her.”
* * *
Serena paused at the bottom of the stairs leading to the chambers above…to his chamber. It was late and she had never gone to his chamber at night. But refusing his command would only arouse suspicion. A servant was bound to obey. Her heart raced and she wiped her damp palms on her tunic. What did his summons mean?
She had been dismayed when they’d asked her to sing, aware it would put her in front of the Norman men and remind the people their lady was still among them. Soon one of them would make the mistake of calling her by her real name. It had almost happened with the children. Though singing with Rhodri presented risks, in the end she was glad she had done it for it reminded her of happier times when she and Rhodri had sung for her father and Steinar, when such evenings were common at Talisand.
Her father had loved the music of the Welsh bard and had encouraged the people to embrace the songs Rhodri brought to their hall. The songs and languages of many cultures had found a place at Talisand. Even the Norman food and language had been of interest to the old thegn since the time when King Edward had invited Normans to England. Her family had never seen them as enemies, not until the Bastard Duke decided to assert his claim to the throne.
Serena had not seen the Red Wolf in the hall while she and Rhodri sang; she hoped he had missed the performance. She did not wish to be the object of the gray eyes that increasingly followed her every movement, desire reflected in their depths.
Within her, hate warred with reluctant respect. Resistance warred with desire. Though he was one of the dreaded Normans, he was a fair master and a defender of women. She was drawn to him, albeit against her will, whenever he was near. Now summoned to his chamber, her heart leaped within her chest. What did he intend?
Resigned, she slowly ascended the stairs.
Her knock sounded softly on the wooden door, the door that had once led to her father’s chamber.
“Come.” At his deep voice, she nearly jumped.
Carefully, she opened the door and stepped inside, closing it behind her. She scanned the room looking for the tall knight with the chestnut hair. At first she did not see him but a movement drew her gaze to the large bathing tub on the floor. He was sitting in the water with his back to her, his knees drawn up to his chest. The dark rust of his hair captured the light from the candles causing it to glisten with streaks of amber.
“Please forgive me, my lord. I did not realize you were bathing.” She turned to leave.
“I would speak with you, Sarah,” he said without turning. “You can wash my back while we talk.”
Serena’s heart sped. While it was not unusual for the lord to ask a servant girl to assist with his bathing, her father had never allowed her to undertake such a task with any of their guests. She did not want to be close to the man, especially knowing he was naked, but a se
rvant could not refuse her lord such a request.
“Yea, my lord.”
Taking up the cloth and soap, she knelt behind him, dipped them both in the water and, working in the soap, began to scrub his back. The muscles of his broad shoulders rippled as she dipped the soapy cloth in the water and ran it over his bronzed skin. His was a knight’s body, one that had wielded a weapon against her people. Despite all that, she wanted to touch him, to smooth her hand over his muscles and the jagged scar on his shoulder. It troubled her that the body of her enemy could arouse her senses so.
Her hands continued to work the soap into his skin, scrubbing with force lest she be lulled into touching him with gentle strokes. She tried to erase the thoughts that swirled through her mind. She supposed many women would want such a man. Aethel had wanted him. While his men told ribald jests at the evening meal, some had spoken of the many women who sought the Red Wolf’s bed. It was easy to see why Aethel had desired him. The scene she had witnessed that night in his chamber when she had found them together was still vivid in her mind. Her hand slowed when his right hand gripped the side of the tub. A jagged scar slashed across the skin of his wrist. Was it the mark of the beast he had killed?
The Red Wolf let his head drop forward and he uttered a soft moan, causing her to lift the cloth from his back.
“You have a beautiful voice, Sarah,” he said in a lethargic voice. “Did the Welshman teach you the songs?”
She forced a thank you from her lips, and resumed scrubbing his back. “Yea, Rhodri taught me his music.”
He reached back, took her hand that held the cloth and drew it to his chest. “Sarah, I would have you also scrub my chest.” He was deliberately forcing her to confront his maleness, to put her hands on the dark hair that covered his chest. She kept her eyes above the water even as her breathing became more strained. She had to fight her own attraction for him in order to keep her distance.
He took the cloth from her and finished scrubbing his legs and what lay beneath the water. She was grateful she would not have to touch that part of his body.
