Lady Faithe gave orders for a pallet to be placed next to the central hearth, a stone slab on which a low fire crackled beneath a brass kettle. “Lay him down carefully,” she said, and her men obeyed, handling Alex as if he were a newborn pup. “Bring me some soap and my medicine box,” she told two maidservants as she ladled warm water from the kettle into a bowl. “And clean strips of linen and blankets.” Her soft, girlish voice seemed unsuited to command, yet her servants jumped to do her bidding.
Odd, Luke thought as he divested himself of his mantle, for such authority to be invested in a girl of such unassuming appearance. Not that she was plain. Indeed, she was slender and fair, as Lord Alberic had promised in the letter in which he’d offered Luke her hand in marriage—and therefore her estate. Her light brown hair, fine as silk, framed a face as appealing as any he’d ever seen. She had those soft hazel eyes he’d only ever seen in England.
Luke was grateful for his bride’s comeliness, although he’d expected someone more... polished. Saxon or no, she was a high-born lady, yet she wore no veil or fur or jewels, and her face was as sun-burnished as that of a common field laborer. The chatelaine’s keys hanging around her neck were the only indication of her rank.
Kneeling beside Alex’s pallet, she unbuckled his swordbelt—empty, since Luke still held his brother’s sword in a fierce grip. Luke took the belt before she could hand it to the woman helping her, buckled it over his own tunic, and sheathed the sword. That he chose to keep the weapon close at hand was clearly not lost on Lady Faithe, who glanced warily in his direction, then proceeded to unlace Alex’s boots.
Luke wished he didn’t feel the need to defend himself and his brother from these people. After all, he was their new lord. Yet they regarded him as the enemy. No doubt Lady Faithe found his presence here particularly loathsome. He was a victorious invader, she his war prize. Who knew what depths of bitterness might simmer beneath her seemingly harmless exterior. Saxons were tricky. It was in the nature of defeated people to use cunning to resist their conquerors—to put on a show of cooperation while fighting back in whatever sly way they could. He’d have to keep a close watch on her and those whom she commanded with such subtle skill. Hence the sword, although in truth Luke felt ill at ease bearing arms. In fact, this was the first he’d done so since entering the monastery after the incident in Cottwyk.
Two months of prayer and seclusion had lulled the fury within him into an uneasy hibernation, yet it would be naive to think he was free of it forever—or to blame it on a handful of dried leaves. Those herbs had merely awakened a beast that lay curled up within him, waiting for the chance to kill and maim—a beast that was part and parcel of who he was, that had always been with him and would never leave him in peace.
Squatting down, Luke lowered his head and rubbed his left arm below the painful knot near his shoulder, thankfully his only souvenir of the ambush. When he looked up, he saw Lady Faithe’s hand slip into the pouch of her girdle. Steel flashed as she withdrew a knife and brought it to Alex’s throat.
Luke whipped out an arm and seized her wrist, jerking her hand—and the knife—away from Alex. She cried out and tried vainly to pull away from him. He grabbed her other hand and yanked her to her feet, clenching his teeth at the searing pain in his upper arm. The knife fell into the rushes.
“None of your Saxon tricks,” he growled. “I told you.” She struggled. He tightened his grip on her wrists.
She winced, but met his eyes squarely. “Let go of me,” she rasped, “or they’ll kill you.” He followed her gaze to see every man and woman in the huge room closing in on them, many wielding crude weapons—hatchets, shears, cleavers—that they’d produced with remarkable speed.
Leaning down, Luke stared directly into her eyes. “If you harm my brother,” he said quietly, “I’ll kill you.” He squeezed her wrists to underscore the threat. She hitched in her breath.
A young, fair-haired man advanced menacingly on Luke, but Lady Faithe shook her head. “Nay, Dunstan. It’s all right.” Dunstan stopped in his tracks, glowering at Luke, a dagger at the ready.
“You’d kill your own wife?” she asked unsteadily.
“We’re not married yet.”
She was trembling, he realized, but to her credit she raised her chin and said, “You Normans think you’re so civilized, but I’ve never yet heard an Englishman threaten to kill a woman.”
“I’ve never yet seen a woman—Norman or English—try to slit the throat of a wounded man entrusted to her care.”
“You think so little of me?”
“I don’t know you,” he said. “And I’m beginning to think I don’t want to. Much less be wed to you.”
Her soft eyes frosted over. “‘Twould suit me well if you were to ride away from here and leave me in peace.”
Luke allowed himself a grim smile. “And ‘twould suit me if this estate were simply appropriated and given to me outright... Sister Faithe.”
Her golden face paled, and Luke knew he’d threatened her where it mattered this time. Hauekleah must be very dear to her heart. Indeed, why else would she have agreed to marry a strange Norman knight rather than lose it? That her stake in this union was as great as his was useful to know.
“You’re hurting me,” she said tightly, glancing at her immobilized hands. “Let me go.”
Luke released her. She let out a ragged breath and rubbed her wrists, now marred by livid marks where his fingers had dug into her. He bit back an apology, reminding himself that, just moments ago, this woman had been aiming a knife at his brother’s throat.
“Go about your business,” she told her staff. They slowly dispersed, except for young Dunstan, who stayed close in an apparent effort to keep watch over his mistress. A plump, older woman brought her a wooden box with brass fittings and a bar of yellowish soap, which she set on a nearby bench. “Thank you, Moira.”
“We could simply take Hauekleah from you,” Luke told Lady Faithe, only to see her face lose even more of its color, highlighting a constellation of pale freckles across her nose and cheeks. “But ‘twould be a brutal business. Regardless of what you may think, your new rulers are a civilized people. Why settle with the sword what we can settle with a marriage?”
In point of fact, Lord Alberic would undoubtedly have seized Hauekleah by force, as was his inclination—provided he could observe the fighting from a safe distance, as usual—had not the alternative of granting it to Luke amused him more.
Alberic was a petty and pampered creature, his one great weakness a paralyzing fear of battle—a rather inconvenient attribute in a military commander, which was what he’d been before he’d maneuvered William into naming him sheriff. He’d managed to hide this flaw from everyone but Luke, who’d seen him hunker down in a ditch at Hastings, blubbering and shrieking as the battle raged around him. The other witnesses to this shameful display had perished at the hands of the English, and no doubt Alberic wished Luke had succumbed to the same fate. From his lordship’s attitude toward Luke since then, it was clear that he despised his most celebrated knight for being privy to his cowardice. Not that he was outwardly hostile; fancying himself a diplomat, Alberic couched his maliciousness in a facade of remote disdain. For his part, Luke had never revealed what he’d seen to a living soul, except for Alex; it would be his word against that of Alberic, still very much a favorite of King William’s.
For months, Lord Alberic had resisted the idea of granting a conquered estate to Luke. Finally, under pressure from William—who’d interpreted Luke’s seclusion at St. Albans as a form of protest for his lack of reward, and didn’t want to alienate one of his most renowned military heroes—the sheriff gave him Hauekleah by means of marriage to Lady Faithe. It was meant as a sort of mean-spirited jest, of course. Hauekleah was a humble farmstead, nothing like the grand estates he’d bestowed on his other knights. Little did Alberic know that the holding he’d intended as a subtle insult suited Luke perfectly. His fondest boyhood memories were of farm life. He could liv
e contentedly at Hauekleah—provided he managed to keep his Saxon bride and her villeins under control.
Another serving wench laid a pile of blankets and linen on the bench. Lady Faithe started to turn toward them, but Luke grabbed her shoulder and forced her to face him. “Hauekleah is mine now, my lady, with or without you. Rest assured I’ll be keeping a close watch on you. If you even think about causing harm to my brother—if I but see it in your eyes—then I’ll refuse this marriage and let Lord Alberic take Hauekleah by force.”
Lady Faithe twisted out of his grip. “You can’t honestly think I meant to cut your brother’s throat.”
“I saw you with my own—”
“I was trying to cut his tunic off.”
Luke studied her seemingly guileless eyes, then looked at his brother, lying on his pallet in his blood-soaked clothes.
“Do you think,” she said, “if I’d intended to murder him, that I’d do it right in front of you?”
A good point, Luke had to admit. She knelt and retrieved her knife from the rushes. Crouching, Luke snatched it from her. “I’ll do it.” Most likely she was telling the truth. If not, she was a consummate liar. Regardless, he’d best reserve judgment on her character—and withhold from her the right to wield knives around his brother—until he’d gotten to know her a bit better.
Anger flashed in her eyes, but she backed away, giving him room to maneuver. As he cut through the heavy wool of his brother’s tunic, she pulled the pieces off and handed them to the plump maid, Moira. Alex’s undershirt sliced easily. She peeled the crimson-stained linen from his injured side with great care.
Her hands were those of a woman who spent her days working. They looked strong and capable, and even slightly work-roughened, but well-shaped. She wore no rings and kept her nails blunt.
“What weapon did that?” she asked as she examined the ghastly wound.
“‘Twas some type of mallet, with a spike on top.”
She nodded. “That’s a farm tool. We use it for driving stakes and breaking up the earth. How many men were there?”
“Just two, but they surprised us. They popped out of the woods a mile down the road. One had that mallet, and he went straight for Alex. The other had a sling.” He touched his left arm high up, where it had been hit, sucking in his breath as the hardened lump throbbed with pain.
“Are you hurt?”
He gritted his teeth. “‘Tis of no concern. If you Saxons could aim, ‘twould have been my skull that stopped that rock, and then I wouldn’t be here to tell the tale. No doubt they meant to knock us out and then finish the job with that mallet, but they weren’t up to the task.”
“I take it they got away.”
Luke grimaced at the memory. “I would have gone after them, but Alex needed me. The one with the mallet may not get far—I took Alex’s sword and stabbed him in the gut before he ran off.” He paused for a heartbeat. “Did you send them to ambush us?”
Seeming unsurprised by the question, she tossed her head in a partially successful attempt to flip her hair over her shoulder. “My men have standing orders to give all Normans a wide berth. I care far too much about Hauekleah to jeopardize it by encouraging my people to attack yours.” She stripped away the last of Alex’s shirt. “The bleeding has stopped.” She began untying Alex’s bloodstained chausses. “Here, help me get these off him.”
Luke hesitated, discomfited by the sight of her loosening his brother’s hose and untying the drawers beneath them. “Isn’t there some manservant who could do this?” he asked. “Someplace else?”
She cast him a wry look. “If it’s your brother’s modesty you’re protecting, I assure you he’s quite unaware of what’s happening, and my servants have all seen—”
“Nay, I meant...” Why was he fumbling for words? “Surely it’s not considered proper for a lady of rank...” He shook his head in exasperation.
She laughed, and he was torn between pleasure at her luminous smile and humiliation at being the cause of her mirth. “You’re serious,” she said.
“No Frankish lady would expose herself to a naked man, much less take his chausses off herself.”
Lady Faithe chuckled as she carefully worked the chausses and drawers down over Alex’s wounded hip. “I can’t think that makes the Frankish husbands very happy.”
Luke almost smiled. He tried to imagine his stepmother or sisters saying such a thing, but they’d rather die than let even the most mildly bawdy remark pass their rouged lips. Just as they’d rather die than undress a man with their soft white hands; no wonder their husbands always looked so unhappy. “Here.” He used his knife to cut the remaining garments from his brother’s body, leaving him entirely naked. Alex certainly wouldn’t mind. One thing he’d never been was shy.
Lady Faithe tucked her hair behind her ears and folded back her sleeves. Taking the soap, she washed her hands, then lathered up one of the linen cloths and gently blotted the gash on Alex’s hip.
“Would you like me to do that?” Luke asked.
“Nay, it takes a light touch.” She smiled lopsidedly, which Luke found oddly engaging. “You really needn’t trouble yourself over my delicate sensibilities, my lord. I’m a widow, not a blushing maid.”
This reminder of Lady Faithe’s widowhood took Luke aback. According to Lord Alberic’s letter, her husband had left for Hastings last summer and never returned. Luke thought back to all the Saxons he’d dispatched with his crossbow at Hastings—and since—and felt an uneasiness in his stomach. For the first time since Alberic’s letter had arrived at the monastery last week, he contemplated this union from Lady Faithe’s perspective: Having killed her husband but seven months ago, the Norman conquerors now expected her to enter meekly into a marriage to one of their most ruthless soldiers. That she could accept this with such seeming composure was really quite remarkable. Either she did have some treachery hidden up her sleeve, or she was one of a singular breed—those true survivors who prevail against adversity by virtue of adaptation and sharp wits. At any rate, she did not strike him as being deep in mourning over her late husband, which was all for the best.
She wrung out the cloth, ordered a fresh bowl of water, and went to work on the ragged laceration along Alex’s side. Tendrils of hair fell across her eyes, and she blew them out of the way. “They’re ugly wounds,” she said, “but now that they’re cleaned off, I’m encouraged. The one on his hip is deep, and I daresay ‘twill take him a while to get back on his feet, but no bones are broken. If we can keep the wounds from festering, he should be fine.”
“Thank God.” Luke crossed himself. She spoke with such confidence that he accepted her assessment unquestioningly. He felt weak with relief.
She cleaned the swollen cut on Alex’s forehead. “This doesn’t look like the other wounds.”
“That’s from a stone. The sling found its mark that time.”
“Can you identify the men who attacked you?” she asked.
“They were dark-haired, both of them. Around my age.”
“Mid-thirties?”
“I’m six-and-twenty.”
Her gaze flickered over him. “You strike me as older than that.”
He felt older than that. “The man I stabbed,” Luke said, “the one with the mallet who’d attacked Alex, was missing an eye. The other one had a big red birthmark on one cheek.”
She exchanged a knowing look with the watchful young man, Dunstan, as she twisted the cloth over the bowl of water.
“Do you know these men?” Luke asked.
She tossed her hair out of the way, which made her keys rattle softly. “They’re incorrigibles, both of them. Hengist and Vance—cousins. They prowl the woods around here, robbing travelers—Saxon or Norman, it makes no difference to them.”
“Only they don’t usually attack this close to Hauekleah,” said Dunstan, taking a step forward. “In fact, they never do. Orrik and I make it our business to keep those woods clean of bandits.”
“Orrik?” Luke said.
“My bailiff.” Lady Faithe opened the padlock on her medicine box with one of her many keys and sorted through the contents. “He manages the farm for me. Yesterday he went to Foxhyrst to buy a cart and some supplies. He should be back tomorrow. Dunstan is his reeve. He looks after things for me when Orrik is gone.”
“Another thing about Hengist and Vance,” Dunstan interjected. “Those two are robbers, not murderers. I never knew them to attack to kill.”
Luke absently rubbed his arm. “They did today.”
“Aye.” Dunstan regarded Alex’s mauled body with a thoughtful expression.
Luke gritted his teeth in frustration. His instinct was to chase after these bandits, but he didn’t dare leave Alex’s side.
“I want those curs found,” Lady Faithe told her reeve. Luke stared at her; young Dunstan merely nodded. “They had no business venturing this close to Hauekleah, not to mention trying to kill our new lord. I won’t have such misdeeds tolerated.”
Her quiet leadership both impressed and disturbed Luke. He admired how well this young woman in her dirty slippers and rough kirtle controlled her men. And, of course, he was eager for the bastards who’d done this to Alex to be apprehended. But what if this was all a trick? What if she had arranged for the ambush, and was now merely pretending to send a party of men after knaves who’d, in fact, done her bidding? Even if it wasn’t a trick, the authority she wielded so effectively was authority that Luke himself should be exercising. He’d crossed the Channel and soaked the earth with blood to acquire this farmstead. Hauekleah was his now. He could lay down his crossbow and live in peace—but first he’d have to prove to these people that he was their master.
He considered the notion of wresting control of this situation from Lady Faithe and giving the orders himself, but in the end he kept quiet. For one thing, Hauekleah wasn’t officially his until after the wedding. For another, the men who’d ambushed them were even now in flight. For Luke to delay their pursuit while he tussled with Lady Faithe over command of her villeins would be ill-advised in the extreme.
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