Читать книгу Bound to the Warrior - Barbara Phinney - Страница 12

Chapter Two

“Are these guards necessary, Poitiers?” Adrien snapped at the chaplain as his squire returned his sword. He saw no need for soldiers.

“My men brought your betrothed down here. They needed to drag her here with great force.”

Adrien couldn’t help but laugh. “Obviously your men require more exercise if two are needed for such a weak task. Have them report to me, and I will train them properly.”

Behind them, Eudo snickered. The red-faced Poitiers growled, “I’ll handle my men. You’ll soon have your hands full with this Saxon wench. She’s lived a strong life in some castle in Essex not far from your brother’s holdings. Farm stock, no doubt. She’s no timid maid.”

Eudo slapped his brother’s back, his grin merry as he strolled past. “William wants me to build a keep in Colchester with the rubble left from some pagan temple. I won’t be far. You’ll be able to come next winter, Prado,” he said, using that annoying childhood name. “Mayhap we can celebrate Christmas together, with wives heavy with child?”

’Twould do no good for Adrien to rise to his brother’s goad, for the man had no wife yet and was simply mocking him. Adrien took his newly betrothed’s arm again.

She yanked herself free. “I can walk of my own accord, sir,” she answered in French.

Irritated by his brother, his king and this woman who apparently knew his mother tongue, Adrien swept his arm sarcastically toward the chapel. “As you wish, my lady. Let us get this unpleasantness over.”

She pulled up her wimple and followed the chaplain down the corridor. Adrien watched her take her leave, her soft sashay not enough to disguise a slight limp. Had Poitiers’s men caused that? His jaw tightened. For better or for worse, this woman would be his wife and was therefore under his protection.

At least she was pleasing to the eye. And he was more than a little surprised by her ability to speak French, albeit with a sharp, Saxon accent that seemed in contrast to the smooth, gentle features. But her accent was nowhere near as sharp as her obvious displeasure over their match.

Give me strong babes that look like you.

William’s words echoed in his head. But he doubted that this woman, Ediva Dunmow, would open her bedchamber to him, and Adrien refused to bend his pride and insist. He watched the woman walk stiffly behind the chaplain as if she was walking to her death.

To her death? Insult bristled through him. And despite the interest in her beauty, he had no desire to marry any more than she did. She needn’t act as if all the disadvantage lay on her side. But ’twas far better to obey than to incur the king’s wrath. So he hastened his own steps toward the chapel.

This would preserve her lands, at least. ’Twould be hard enough for England to accept a Norman king, but if this woman remained on her land, married and settled, there may be some measure of peace for her people. Surely even she would see the logic in that.

He followed Ediva into the chapel, all the time aware of the soldiers at his heels. But wisely, the armed men kept to the back, propping open the heavy oak door and allowing the wind from the river to dilute the potent odor of burning wax. The old chaplain stopped at the front, offering respect to the altar before turning. He cleared his throat as he opened his small leather-bound book.

The ceremony was short and in Latin, and Adrien was again surprised to find Ediva completely fluent in yet another language.

When Poitiers ordered them to seal the nuptials with a kiss, Adrien turned to face his new wife.

His wife! He’d never considered this day, always expecting to live out his lifespan as a bachelor and a soldier. Now he’d pledged to God that he would devote himself solely to this woman, a stranger not even of his own country.

And judging by her regal bearing, this woman was in a class far above his. Poitiers’s insult of farm stock was foolish. She was obviously higher in status. Aye, his family had influence with William, but Adrien was happy being only in the king’s service. Would his wife despise him more for his Norman heritage or for his low upbringing?

Ediva blinked up at him, her arrogance gone and now revealing smoldering, stubborn fear that was, oddly enough, tempered with a slow swallow.

’Twas just a kiss ordered by the king through Poitiers. Yet her pale eyes were awash with tears and her lips clenched so tightly together they must have hurt.

He pulled back his shoulders. He wasn’t in the habit of forcing himself on women.

“Seal this union, Adrien,” Poitiers growled. “It has the king’s license.”

Behind him he heard the chink of half-drawn swords hitting mail. Ediva tilted up her chin and that fine, steel backbone stiffened as if prepared for an accursed death.

He lowered his head and deftly leaned to one side. He would kiss this woman and quite possibly save both their lives. A brief kiss, barely a brushing of lips, a touch light enough to feel the breath of her gasp as she realized what he had also realized.

They were now husband and wife.

* * *

Ediva could no longer control the emotions roiling within her. There was hatred for her situation, yet no revulsion, certainly not like during her marriage to Ganute. When Adrien gave her the barest kiss, she’d shuddered with an expectancy of more.

But no more came and her nerves danced like the traveling acrobats who’d entertained last year.

“’Tis over, madam,” Adrien’s low voice whispered close to her parted lips. “You may open your eyes now.”

Heat scorched her cheeks, and her eyes flew open. “I was expecting more, ’tis all. My first wedding was a more extravagant affair.”

“Alas, we have no fanfare.”

“Not unless you consider the chink of weaponry in case I fussed. Much different than the sound of trumpets.”

Adrien lifted his eyebrows. “Trumpets?”

“A chorus of them from the battlement of Dunmow Keep. My mother wanted my wedding heard a league away. My ears ached for a week, but she was as deaf as a stone and cared little for me. Much like those here in London.”

She stepped back. She hadn’t thought of her mother in years. Like Ganute’s mother, her own mother hadn’t seen the end of that year due to an outbreak of fever. They had been peas of the same pod, and neither cared enough for Ediva to notice that Ganute abused his position of husband. They wanted only that the monies of the two families stay within the county.

Ediva tried to relax. ’Twould do no good to stew upon her selfish mother’s actions or on the memory of her kinder father, who had been the first to succumb to the fever weeks before the wedding. What a bitter year that had been.

Adrien lifted her hand to his lips, but paused before kissing it, to whisper, “’Tis unwise to complain here. The king has ears even in the chapel.” His gaze flickered to Poitiers as he brought her hand to his lips.

The warmth seeped into her cold skin. And his rough fingers brushed her palm, evoking a shiver deep within. She wanted to snatch away her hand, but Adrien kept his grip firm as he led her from the altar. He stalled by the door, turning to speak to the old chaplain. “My thanks to you, Poitiers, and you, dear brother, for being available for such a grand event. You both may report to the king his will has been done. May I depart for this woman’s keep to inspect my new acquisition?”

Ediva heard the steward—now her brother-in-law—laugh. Peeking over her own shoulder, she watched the chaplain scowl at her new husband’s impudence.

“Go, but be mindful of the king’s orders.” Poitiers then added, “May God bless your marriage.”

Ediva glanced at Adrien. His mockery turned to a scowl. Once out of earshot, he turned to her. “Have you a maid to prepare you for the journey home?”

“A maid! You jest, sir. I have no one with me. I have naught but the clothes I wear. When the guards arrived at the keep, they insisted that I travel immediately. They wanted only fresh horses, so I had just enough time to be given my cloak and throw my steward some duties over my shoulder before being dragged down here.” She glared at Adrien. “I spent this past night with other women who were as bewildered as I was, none of whom were any better supplied.”

Adrien frowned. “How did the king know of you?”

She shrugged. “My husband wanted to be well-known in King Edward’s court, and then in King Harold’s short time in court early last year. Mayhap he left a spy who saw fit to inform the new king of my status as widow.”

Aye, probably so, Ediva thought with disgust. And if that was the case, then she knew who it must have been. Olin, Ganute’s second cousin, had been in the thick of royal intrigue, sending many a missive on the machinations of the court back to the keep. Ediva had intercepted several. ’Twas simple enough to pry off Olin’s hasty seal and reset it again. But after she’d read a few, Ediva saw the messages as foolish gossip. Olin was wasting good parchment to earn a stipend from Ganute—and likely, he’d earned another stipend from the king for reporting back on Ganute’s replies.

Now there was a new king, but Olin was apt to swear allegiance to the new seat of power as quickly as a hawk turned toward its prey. Mayhap he’d thought that by courting the king’s pleasure with jots of information he would be given her keep and lands. But, she reminded herself, all that she owned now belonged to the tall, silent Norman beside her.

* * *

“How is it that you know French and Latin, milady?” Adrien asked, wanting to break the awkward silence. “What other tongues do you speak?”

“Just those. My mother wanted to secure my sisters and me good marriages, so she brought in a tutor who’d lived in Normandy.” She tossed him a hard look. “But do not believe that because I’ve learned your language, I support this invasion. Especially now that you have stolen what is rightfully mine.”

As much as he desired to keep their relationship cordial, he could not let her remark go unanswered. “The king decides what belongs to you, woman. He fought for that right.”

“The only good thing that happened at Hastings was not William’s victory!” she spat out.

Her words made no sense to him. Adrien looked curiously at her, but when she refused to expand on her cryptic explanation, he continued his walk outside.

She followed him until they reached the king’s stables. Adrien barked out a stream of orders to several young men. One immediately departed on a small horse, while another disappeared into the stable.

“Nay,” she whispered, as she drew her cloak tightly around her and shook her head as if she had trouble believing where they’d ended up.

Adrien turned. His long outer tunic swirled in the breeze from the Thames. “Milady?”

“My lord,” she answered with a horrified shake of her head. “I rode in yesterday from Essex with only one stop for the night. I was up before the sun that morning, back on a horse, and rode all day.”

“You had last night to soothe your muscles.”

She scoffed out a noise. “I spent the night with other women, sharing one inept maid who brought us only one pitcher of water to share. We slept on the floor and were given only cold broth to break our fast. I cannot ride again so soon.” She offered him a pleading look. “For I do not ride.”

“You cannot ride a horse? You just said you rode in here.”

She bit her lower lip. “On the horse’s bare rump behind one of the soldiers, clinging to his mail ’til my hands were too cramped to hang on. Once I slipped off!”

What had Poitiers claimed? That she’d been difficult? The chaplain had reddened at Adrien’s sharp reply. Had the man of God been duped by his own inept men? Ediva was sharp-tongued, but judging from her look, she was also very scared.

Adrien glanced at the horses being led from the stables. He’d ordered his stallion and a small mare. The stable boy had obeyed him with his mount, a courser as fine as a knight was allowed. But the mare the boy also walked out was the same size. A grand dam she was, fit for a queen.

But not for a young bride with no experience.

He looked back at her. “You cannot ride at all? How did you expect to return home?”

“Since coming here was not by my choice, I had no time to consider it.” She looked annoyed. “As for riding, I had no need to learn. I was taught only the duties of running a keep, managing its expenses and staff. I do not prance around the countryside with nary a worry in my head!”

“What do you do whenever you travel?”

“Before coming here, I had only left my home once to attend my nuptials at my husband’s keep. I was taken there in a covered cart.”

How was that so? She was a lady of rank and privilege. Surely she’d have traveled somewhere? Her nobleman husband must have taken her with him on his journeys. How could he not have? Adrien would have been as proud as his faith would allow to take a beautiful wife such as Ediva with him on his travels.

Perhaps there was no love in her first marriage. Nobility often married only to secure fortunes and alliances.

He shook off his thoughts. The past mattered little when there were the trials of here and now to face. Such as getting his new wife out of London. He would not spend his wedding night here where privacy only existed for the king. With her sore and aching body, Ediva deserved more than the crowded, uncomfortable accommodations he would be able to secure. The sooner they arrived at her keep, his keep now, the better.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to endure the saddle one more time, Ediva. We must leave for the keep at once.”

“But the day is almost over, Adrien.” His name on her Saxon lips sounded strong, yet it quivered like a leaf in autumn.

“There are several inns along the north of the river outside of London. I’ve sent a boy up to the first one to prepare a room for us.”

“Us?” she echoed softly.

“We are husband and wife now.”

With eyes widening, she wet her lips and swallowed. He took a step toward her but was rewarded by a fearful step back.

He frowned. “You heard the king’s orders.”

She looked away.

With a sigh, he grimaced. He didn’t have time for this. Daylight was dwindling, and he wanted to reach the inn before dark. If she was some fearful maid, he’d deal with it when they arrived at the keep.

“Don’t fret, Ediva. ’Tis not my intent to incite fear. If you like, I will give you your privacy. You may take the room at the inn for yourself. But we will need to discuss this when we arrive at our home. Now, allow me to help you mount the mare.”

The stable boy led the horse over and stilled the huge dam beside Ediva. She tilted her head up to look from the huge mare’s legs to the saddle. She gathered her cloak tight about her neck and dropped her jaw.

He shook his head. “We don’t have to take this mount if you don’t want to.” He turned to the boy holding the reins. “Get her something smaller.”

“Sir, she’s a gift from the king. This mare was meant for the new queen’s stables.”

And a good gift she was, too, but Adrien shook his head. “If my wife cannot ride her, I must decline.”

A small hand touched his arm and he looked down at Ediva. “Nay, my lord. William may be a brutal king with blood on his hands, but his gift is of good value. Though I fear I cannot ride her home, we should bring her with us all the same.”

Adrien turned to the boy, thankful for Ediva’s logic. “Tie her lead to my mount, then.” He swiftly mounted his own horse and leaned down to the unsure Ediva, extending his arm.

She took it, and after he’d secured a good grip on her, he swung her up onto his lap. When she’d settled as best she could atop him, he spoke to the stable boy, ordering him to tell his squire to deliver his mail to Dunmow Keep immediately.

Then he rode out of the stable. After they traveled along the street that lined the river and invited the cool wind on their faces, he spoke.

“My thanks, Ediva, for accepting the horse. The mare is too fine a gift to be ignored. It is a mark of favor from our king, and ’twould be considered ungracious to refuse.”

Her answer was as cold as the dying day. “I care nothing for that.”

“Then why accept his gift?”

“As you say, she’s a fine horse. And the king does have a claim on my gratitude, though it has nothing to do with the horse.”

Her sideways fealty to William made no sense, but he felt it related back to her other cryptic remark. “How has King William earned your gratitude?”

Ediva didn’t answer, and as Adrien held her tight about her waist and the horses trotted along through the ever-thinning sprawl of huts, he pondered her puzzling words but refused to ask the question again.

They said nothing more until they reached the inn at the edge of London town, barely seen in the dwindling light of day.