She gritted her teeth, wondering if she would ever sleep.
She woke later, in the darkest, deepest part of the night. For a few moments, she wondered what had aroused her. Then she heard it—a faint noise coming from the stairwell.
She strained her ears. Who would climb the stairs this time of night, and so stealthily? Her heart began to pound.
The noise seemed to stop outside the door; she took a deep breath and turned toward the man beside her. With only the merest hint of light creeping through the cracks in the shutters, she could make out no more than the shape of him. But she could hear his slow, even breathing.
She froze in place as she heard the quiet footsteps near the door. The Norman had not seen fit to lock them in. Why would he? He had a whole army below to guard him. She would lie here and wait and see who the intruder was.
Nay, she would not!
With elaborate care, she climbed over the Norman. As her feet touched the floor, the door creaked. Edeva backed toward the wall. The door opened slowly and someone came into the room, but she could not see who it was. She reassured herself that she could not be seen, either.
Long, painful seconds passed. She sought to press herself against the wall. Her foot bumped into something, making a noise.
Strong hands grabbed her. Just as she thought to scream, a sweaty hand clapped over her mouth. “Edeva, it’s me,” a familiar voice whispered in Saxon.
She nearly fainted with relief. Then she realized all the other dangers facing them, and a new wave of panic overwhelmed her.
The hand covering her mouth moved away. She took a deep breath and whispered, “What are you doing, Godric? Are you mad? The Norman sleeps there, in that bed. If he wakes and calls an alarm, you have no chance.”
“Do you want me to kill him?”
“What would that accomplish?” she whispered back. “His army holds Oxbury. They are not like to leave even if he dies.”
Her brother grunted.
The Norman sighed in his sleep and rolled over. Edeva pulled on Godric’s arm. “Let us go in the stairwell,” she whispered.
They crept out of the bedchamber door, closing the door behind them. Halfway down the stairs, Godric halted.
“How fare Beornwold and Alnoth?” Edeva asked.
“Tired of eating squirrel and rabbit and sleeping on the ground.”
“Have you thought of a plan? Is that what you have come to tell me?”
“I came to see how the place was guarded. And how you fared. It seems you have been treated well enough.” There was a sneer in his voice that raised Edeva’s ire.
“’Tis not what you think. I have not cooperated with the Normans any more than necessary. I could not let the place go to ruin while I waited for you to think of a way to take back our home. I had to see to the servants and the preparations for the winter!”
“And warm the Norman bastard’s bed. For certes, you must do that!”
“He makes me sleep at his side!”
Her brother’s voice turned thoughtful. “That you are his leman may aid us. You’ll be able to learn his plans ahead of time.”
“I am not his leman!” Edeva said hotly.
“Truly? He has not bedded you?”
“Nay.”
“’Tis odd,” Godric said. “But mayhap he fears that if he beds you, he will have to take you to wife. I’ve heard that the Conqueror is most particular of his men’s conduct toward women.”
“Then why do the other Normans fornicate like rabbits?” Edeva demanded.
“I suppose the standards are higher for the men William grants land to.”
Edeva pondered this information. Learning that the Norman might have declined to bed her because he did not want to be forced to marry her did not make her feel any better.
“A pity he has no liking for you,” Gothic said. “’Twould help us a good deal if you were his leman.”
“Jesu, a moment ago you were scorning me for sharing his bed!”
“Well, you cannot blame me for being a little resentful of your circumstances. You sleep here, warm and dry, and eat hot food every day, while the rest of us suffer in the woods.”
“Do you have any sort of plan at all?”
Godric sighed. “Beornwold stalks around our camp in a fury, but he has no more idea of how to dislodge these devils than I do. I was hoping you had thought of something.”
Edeva shook her head. “There are too many of them and too few Saxon warriors. You cannot defeat them unless a part of their force leaves the valley.”
“Or their leader is killed. That would demoralize them, throw them into disorder.”
“Or cause them to burn the manor and kill all of us!”
“’Twas merely a thought,” Godric said. “Surely you would have no complaint if we murdered the bastard.” He motioned up the stairs. “’Twould be easy to do. I could cut his throat in his sleep.”
“Nay!”
“You puzzle me, Edeva. The Norman has obviously shown no interest in making you his woman, and yet you argue for his life.”
“I am being practical! If you kill him in his bed, who do you think will be punished? His men will assume that I did the deed. They will show me no mercy, nor any to the rest of the people of Oxbury.”
“You could flee with me.”
“Nay, I would not leave others behind to suffer.”
“You were always difficult, little sister. Argumentative and stubborn. No wonder the Norman does not favor you. Your unfeminine nature likely repels him “
Edeva took a sharp breath, feeling Godric’s words cut into her. He was a fool, but nevertheless, what he said stung.
“Well,” Godric said as he started down the stairs, “I can see we’ll get no good of you. We’ll have to depend on Golde for aid.”
“Golde!”
“Keep your voice down, wench. Golde is the one who smuggled me in. At least she remembers where her loyalties lie,” Godric said as he disappeared into the blackness.
Edeva clenched her hands into fists. Damn Godric! And damn the Norman! Between the two of them, they were driving her mad.
She crept back up the stairs. The sound of the Norman’s heavy even breathing fueled her fury as she climbed back into bed. She had saved his life this night. And for what? So he could use her to run his household.
Why was she helping a man who found her so unfeminine, so repellent, that he did not want to bed her?
Bitterness suddenly gave way to tears.
She had not cried when word came of the Normans’ victory at Hastings. Nor when the enemy was first sighted in the valley. Not even when she watched her countrymen die at the end of a rope and believed she would be next.
But now the tears came, and she wished dearly for another woman to talk to. A sister. Or her mother, dead for two years.
There was no one but her, and she must be strong. The people of Oxbury depended upon her. Her brothers would never think of them, concerned as they were with their own misfortunes, Three score lives hung in the balance. Children and women. Hard-working, loyal sokemen.
All of them, looking to her. Edeva—Leowine’s daughter.
* * *
He was dreaming. He knew that because he had never been to this place before, at least not with Damaris. They were not in a gentle, peaceful garden like the one behind her father’s house, but a forest, wild and bright with golden leaves.
Damaris was there, talking to him, her dark eyes shining, her delicate lips moving as she spoke in her soft voice. He knew not what she said, only that she was near. He reached out for her, seeking a kiss.
Her lips felt plump and ripe beneath his, her body warm and alive. He drew back to look at her.
No brown eyes met his, but cornflower blue. Lips, not the garnet red he remembered, but rosy pink. And fair hair...
The Saxon. ’Twas not Damaris he held but the Saxon woman
He stared in surprise even as the dream dissolved.
He woke slowly, adjusting to th
e darkness, the unfamiliar surroundings. A dream. That was all it was, the only way he would ever see Damaris again.
But the Saxon lay beside him, snuggled close, as if she sought out his warmth. He could still remember the sweetness of her lips from the dream, and his shaft rose, hard and wanting.
He reached out for her, then stopped, realizing he could not find his release in the flaxen down between her thighs. There was a bargain between them. He would not go back on his word, even with a Saxon.
Torment. His men thought he had bedded her a dozen times by now. In the meantime, he burned. Burned like he had for no woman except Damaris.
Nay, that was not true. He did not burn for Damaris. He loved her, adored her, worshipped her. Over the years, she had become almost a dream to him. A fantasy.
The Saxon was real. Agonizingly, excruciatingly real. He could smell the scent of her. Warm and fresh, like new-mown hay. An earthy odor, unlike the perfumed oils that Damaris favored.
He stifled a groan and sat up. Not yet dawn, but it seemed unlikely that he would sleep again.
Getting out of bed, he fumbled around in the darkness. He found his clothes, his boots and sword belt. As he pulled his tunic over his head, the softness of the garment reminded him of who had sewn it for him.
’Twas too difficult, sharing a bedchamber with a woman he could not have. Mayhaps he should go back to locking the Saxon in and sleeping elsewhere.
But then his men would think he tired of her. Some of them might even dare approach her, believing she was no longer under his protection.
A wave of rage went through him as he imagined another man putting his hands on the Saxon. Nay, he could not endure that! If anyone was to have her, it would be him!
She was his prize, the symbol of his victory over her people. As her conqueror he should have the right to bed her. Every night if he wished. Several times a night.
Instead, because of his foolish agreement, he was forced to live like a monk.
He swore again as he started down the stairs, then slowed as he felt a draft. Someone had left a door or shutter open somewhere.
He ventured into the main part of the hall where his men slept soundly, stretched out on the benches. There was no sign of anything amiss, but he felt edgy. In the night, before he dreamed of Damaris, he’d had the familiar nightmare about being in the oubliette. This time there had been voices whispering outside his prison. The dream had gradually turned into the other, but the memory of those voices stayed with him. One of them had belonged to the woman, the Saxon.
The yard was empty and dark as he made his way to the jakes. A dog barked from near the stables, but otherwise everything was quiet. He relieved himself and walked back to the hall.
As he approached, he spied an unshuttered window at the rear of the building. The sight made him uneasy. He walked toward the gate to see if the guards had noticed anything amiss. Climbing the gatehouse ladder, he walked out on the wall. When no one hailed him, his heart leapt into his throat.
The guards had been killed! It was an ambush! He hurried down the ladder, ready to call an alert, and nearly tripped over a man sprawled in the shadows. The man sat up, groaning.
“Blessed Jesu, what happened?” Jobert demanded.
“Milord?” Osbert croaked.
“‘Yea, ’tis Brevrienne. Now, tell me what happened!”
Osbert didn’t answer. A sickly sweet scent wafted to Jobert’s nostrils. Not wine, but strong drink of another kind.
Fury built inside him. He wanted to grab the guard by the throat and dash his brains out against the palisade wall. Instead, he said, “Where’s the other sentry? Is he drunk as well?”
“Milord...” Osbert spoke in a slurred voice. “We did not mean to drink so much. It went to my head so quickly, I can scarce believe it.”
“Do you think you were poisoned, that the drink had something in it?”
“Poison? Nay, Golde would not do that to us. ’Tis merely...” He groaned. “I’ve never had this stuff before. The Saxons brew it out of honey. I had heard it was strong, but I did not think ’twould do this to me.”
“Who’s Golde?”
“One of the weavers,” the man groaned. “The comely one.”
“I should have you flogged!” Jobert snapped.
Osbert said nothing.
Jobert stood over him, disgusted. If he had these men whipped as punishment, then he would have to worry about their welts healing. While they mended, he would lose the services of two of his soldiers. It seemed a waste. There must be other means of teaching them a lesson.
He glanced around the yard, lit now by the beginning glow of dawn. “The stables need mucking out,” he said. “I was going to have some of the Saxons do it, but you and your companion may have the job instead.”
“Clean the stables? Today?” Osbert asked weakly. Jobert could imagine his distress. Raking out months of dung and soiled straw was an unpleasant task in the best of circumstances. With a raging hangover, ’twould be hell itself.
“Get to it, man. I’ll wake your fellow tosspot and tell him the good news.”
The guard rose shakily, then hurried off. Jobert found the other man snoring nearby, propped up against the palisade wall. A swift kick in the ribs and some well-chosen words had him on his feet in seconds, although Jobert wondered how long he’d manage to stay upright.
After the guard left, Jobert found the empty skin lying on the ground. He picked it up and sniffed it.
Mead. He’d heard of it, though never sampled it himself. ’Twas said to be several times as potent as the same amount of wine. He wondered why the woman Golde had seen fit to share a skin of it this particular night. Would the weaver be about her work yet, or was she also sleeping off an aching head?
After searching the weaving shed, empty except for spools of wool, several looms, and dye vats, Jobert returned to the hall and approached the screened-off area where the unmarried women slept. Several of them were already up, braiding each other’s hair. They froze at the sight of him. “Golde?” he asked.
They all shook their heads.
He left the women, wondering where to search next. Mayhaps he should wait until Edeva rose and discuss the situation with her.
He went outside and followed the wall of the palisade to where it abutted the manor workshops. As he turned back toward the gate, he saw a figure hurrying toward the weaving shed.
He gave chase, and in a few long strides, grasped the fabric of a cloak and whirled the figure around.
Wide-set hazel eyes regarded at him. A swirl of tawny hair spilled over the drab cloak.
One of the comely ones, Osbert had said.
“Golde?” Jobert demanded.
The woman smiled.
He shook her. “Where did you get the mead? What have you been doing with the guards?”
She still smiled at him placidly, obviously unafraid. Either she was innocent, or she did not anticipate that he would punish her.
Jobert loosened his hold on the woman’s cloak. His inability to speak Saxon was proving to be a real trial. He could not properly question the woman.
She licked her well-shaped lips suggestively, and Jobert felt his muscles tighten. For a moment, he considered accepting her invitation, then drew back in disgust. She’d probably pleasured both the guards already. Even as sex-starved as he was, he had no desire to sample such well-used wares.
* * *
From a distance, Edeva saw the Norman and Golde standing close. He bent near, as if whispering an endearment, then walked off.
Edeva drew back behind the hall. She did not want him to catch her spying on him and his lover.
EIGHT
Edeva left the weaving shed and started across the yard. As she rounded the corner of the hall, she saw the Norman. He had apparently just come in the gate. His boots were muddy and his hair disheveled and windblown.
She watched him stride toward the storehouses, and her eyes narrowed as she remembered that she had sent Golde to fe
tch some woad for making blue dye. If the two met along one of the pathways between the storage buildings, she could well imagine what would happen. They would end up rutting like animals in some secluded spot. For the past few days, the Norman left the bed early, and Edeva was convinced his first business of the morning was a tryst with Golde.
She continued across the yard. ’Twas none of her affair. If the Norman sought to ease his lust with that conniving slut, ’twas his own stupidity. She would not tell him that Golde was a spy for her brothers. Let him find it out on his own.
She neared the hall, then suddenly reversed direction. Golde was her servant. If Brevrienne wanted to dally with the wenches, let him find one who had her work finished!
Edeva headed back to the storage buildings. As she strode purposefully past the granary, she met the Norman coming out of the smokehouse—alone. He met her gaze, smiling. For a moment, she was tongue-tied, then she mumbled something about getting herbs for dyeing. She started on her way, but the Norman grabbed her arm.
“You are exactly who I wished to see. I have come from the cattle pen where the men are culling the herd. ’Tis past time we began the butchering. I need your aid, Lady Edeva. I need to know where the salt is kept.” His green eyes entreated her. “You know that we must preserve meat before winter. If we do not, all of Oxbury will go hungry.”
His hand still gripped her arm and Edeva could feel the strength of his fingers through her tunic. A shiver passed through her. Even when he touched her thus, her body responded.
She had put off this moment, as long as she could. If they were to have sufficient foodstores for the long winter months, she would have to tell him. Sighing, she said, “’Tis under the floor in the chapel.”
“Show me.”
He continued to hold her arm as they walked across the yard together. The air felt cold and damp, and the Norman paused briefly to look up at the sky. “A storm is brewing,” he said. “I can smell it.”
Edeva thought of her brothers and the others in the forest. They would be miserable when the autumn rains began. While she remained safe and warm, sharing Leowine’s bedchamber with the enemy.
The Conqueror (Hot Knights) Page 8
