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

Chapter Three

They arrived at Dunmow Keep late in the afternoon. Two quiet days had passed since they’d left London. Although they’d ridden only a few hours each day and stopped for more than adequate rests, Ediva’s body throbbed with pain. She’d barely been able to stand at the last stop they’d made.

But at least Adrien had not forced her to keep the same punishing pace she’d endured to London. Nay, he had not shown himself to be cruel...yet.

She’d never considered the sight of Dunmow to be welcoming. Ganute had been proud of it, for the large, round tower was a rare stone keep. Imposing. A scar on the landscape, really, but today Ediva was glad to see it again after all she’d endured. Too much time on a horse...discovering she’d lost her land...forced into marriage. Aye, seeing Dunmow felt almost comforting.

The bailey below had been enclosed with a thick battlement just after she’d married, and as they rode toward it, she caught sight of the rising motte and its early spring garden.

“Your new property, my lord,” she said close to his face. Gone was all embarrassment. They’d spent too long on one horse.

“This is it?” Adrien asked with awe in his voice.

“Aye. ’Tis Dunmow Keep. The village is Little Dunmow. There used to be a timber wall surrounding the huts, but one winter was deep and many stole the posts for firewood. Ganute refused to rebuild it.”

Adrien’s gaze swept across the village, but soon it returned to the huge keep. “’Tis made of stone! When was it built?”

“Ganute’s father built it when King Edward was crowned.”

“In commemoration?”

She shrugged. “Most likely to curry favor.”

“But we passed no quarries. There are mostly fens and swamps here.”

“The stone came from the west.” She studied the keep with a critical eye. “They call it limestone and say ’tis easy to cut but hardens over time. I like the color. ’Twas the one thing I liked about it when I first arrived. Only when I was widowed did it begin to feel like home.”

Adrien shot her a questioning frown, but she refused to explain herself. Someone from the sheep-filled village ran toward the main gate and heaved it open, allowing Adrien to ride into the bailey with the big mare in tow. There, Ediva slipped free of his arms and dropped into a young squire’s grip. Oh, but she ached! And her legs could barely hold her. How was she ever going to climb the steps to her solar?

She looked around. Geoffrey, the steward, had ordered the yard cleaned. Mayhap that boy who Adrien had constantly sent ahead had warned the man that his new lord was on the way and her steward thought it wise to put forth a good first impression.

She mentally shook her head. Shortly after Hastings, Geoffrey had voiced his dislike of Norman rule, as had the chaplain. Tidying up wouldn’t have been done to impress a man who, in Geoffrey’s eyes, should not even be here at all.

“My lady! You’re home!” her steward called as he exited the keep and trotted down the stone steps. “We’ve just heard the news of your marri—”

He stopped as Adrien dismounted.

Her new husband had come without the fanfare of troops, yet didn’t appear to miss them, either. He’d ridden with great confidence, as if daring any thief to ambush them.

None had taken the offer.

Standing akimbo, he faced the young steward. “I am your new lord. You will address me, not Lady Ediva.”

A crowd had begun to gather. And with Geoffrey looking stubbornly at Adrien, Ediva sighed. “I will handle my staff, Adrien.” All she wanted was a bath and a rest, but she should nip in the bud any conflict that might arise with Adrien’s arrival.

He glared at her. “They are my staff now and are subjects of the new king.”

Should she allow him to prove his worth? He was hardly a nobleman—merely a knight lucky enough to fight on the winning side. He may be unfit to lead these people, despite the strength that flowed from him so easily. But how would Adrien respond if he received disrespect? He’d treated her far better than she’d expected thus far. These two nights since their wedding he had ordered her a private room and slept outside her door, a far cry from what Ganute would have done.

Yet he was still Norman, and his punishment might be as cruel as the rumors about them suggested. If that were so, her people would suffer.

She could not allow that. Now, as always, it was her place to stand between her husband and the people under her protection he might see fit to harm.

She set her hand against his hard chest only to remove it quickly, remembering with embarrassment its firmness on her cheek when she’d dozed late yesterday. “My lord, allow me. ’Tis all I have ever trained for. We both need rest and food and a change of clothes. Allow me to arrange that.”

He looked down at her coolly. “And you have clothes for me?”

She thought a moment. A big part of her was fighting the whole idea of being the dutiful wife. He was a Norman stealing her land, after all.

But she had no desire to incite his or the king’s anger. Who knew what would happen then? ’Twas rumored that ten Saxon men would be killed should one Norman be injured. Nay, ’twas best to keep the peace. “I have some clothes from Ganute’s younger days, when he was far slimmer. They are hardly your style, nor do they have your length, but with a few stitches they will do until yours arrive.”

Adrien handed the reins of his horse to the shy, young man, Rypan—who, Ediva noted, watched with huge eyes. “Treat these mounts well, or you’ll be treated as you’ve done to them,” he told him in heavily accented English. The boy nodded, most likely understanding only the fierce tone.

Adrien glanced suspiciously around, and his mere size caused several maids and men to step back. Geoffrey stood his ground.

Ediva leaned close to Adrien and spoke tightly in quiet French. “These people have lost family at Hastings. I doubt any have seen a Norman before, except the troops that marched through to inform us of our new king. Some of those men were very brutal. Be wise, lest you find yourself wondering if your next meal has been poisoned.”

She tempered her words with weariness. She’d already buried one husband and after this frightful trip, was reluctant to bury another. Even if she could escape the fury of the king should Adrien die, new widowhood would risk Ganute’s cousin, Olin, descending upon her with foolish airs of his wrongful claim on Dunmow Keep.

Adrien drilled her with a penetrating look. “Mayhap I will have you taste my food first. You don’t want me here any more than they do.”

She answered him with a heavily burdened sigh. Of course, he would show his control over the keep she’d vowed to protect. But at this moment, she couldn’t care less. “Such a delightful way to start a marriage,” she muttered. “I’m sure you will want to inspect your new holdings. Go ahead. I plan to have a bath and a meal and a sleep. And if you feel the need for me to taste your food, wake me. For I really do not care.” She lumbered stiff-kneed up the motte and into the keep.

Adrien confirmed to himself his horses were being cared for before ordering a young, brash-looking boy to take him to Ediva. He, too, wanted food and a bath and a good sleep before he inspected his new home, but those must wait. He would not have his wife ordering him around in front of his new staff and he planned to tell her so.

The boy took him up the stairs to the top floor, then down a corridor that was rounded like the tower’s outer wall. The door at the end led to Ediva’s solar, and when Adrien threw it open, he found Ediva sitting with her steward by her side while a maid dug through a nearby trunk of clothes. The curtains that usually closed off the bed were pulled back and a light breeze rolled through the room by way of two narrow windows. The private solar was bright. A whitewash lightened the curved walls, and pushed to one side was a large, round brazier with an ornate cover.

Ediva was tossing clothes into Geoffrey’s open arms. Another young woman sat at a table, sewing feverishly. His new wife didn’t look up from her task, even when his gaze finally lit on her. “I’ve found some things for you,” she said.

Geoffrey held a mix of fine linens and sturdy wools. As best as Adrien could tell, all items were old-fashioned and of Saxon design. The leather thongs looked stiff and useless, but he’d find replacements for them easily enough.

“Thank you.”

She said no more. The girl on her knees pulled out a piece of cloth, one that snagged Ediva’s attention enough for her to fall to her own knees and grab it. The girl started back in surprise. Immediately, Ediva stuffed the linen back deep into the trunk again. A burgeoning silence swelled in the room.

No one moved.

Curious, Adrien strode up to peer into the chest. A tail of the material stuck out a moment before she shoved it deeper in. The cloth was pale blue in color, as lovely as Ediva’s brilliant eyes. Her hand lay on the other clothes, shaking ever so slightly. Adrien crouched and looked into her face. Her eyes were closed.

“Ediva?”

She swiped her hand over her cheek and opened her eyes. Glaring at the brash boy who’d accompanied Adrien, she snapped, “Harry, why are you still here?”

Harry looked down at his feet. “I came in with my new lord.”

“Well, you can leave now.” She twisted to speak to the woman sewing. “Margaret, I don’t need half of Dunmow Keep traipsing through my solar.”

“Ediva?”

She turned her attention to Adrien, her expression cool as the late winter rain that had fallen that morning.

“Harry will be your squire,” she carried on in English, still on her knees. “If you need me, he will know where to find me.”

“I have my own squire.”

“Harry has some knowledge of French and a good ear for learning. Use him as much as possible.” Her voice was steady, but her hands still trembled and though she looked toward his face she would not meet his eye.

Irritated, he stood and folded his arms. “I will decide the staff, Ediva.”

“You know nothing of the staff here. This is my keep, Lord Adrien, and as its lady, I make such decisions.”

With that, she slammed the lid of the trunk down. All the servants jumped.

Enough, Adrien decided as he threw open the trunk lid. Whatever was in this thing had shaken Ediva more than anything he’d seen her encounter, including the king’s command to wed. Retrieving the blue garment she’d hidden, he discovered it was a woman’s shift.

Holding it up with both hands, he drew in a sharp breath. There were long, violent slashes in it, and splattered about them were brownish stains.

Blood. He’d been a soldier long enough to recognize the unwashed stains. ’Twas a sleeping shirt of good quality, and most likely hers. What had happened? “Is this yours, Ediva?”

She snatched it back and thrust it into the arms of the girl beside her. “Never mind. Turn this into rags, girl.” Immediately after, she ordered the servants to leave.

After the servants had filed out and the door shut firmly behind them, Adrien said, “That’s blood. What happened?”

Her chin had wrinkled. Just as he thought she wouldn’t answer, she said, “Ganute’s departure gift to himself.”

Adrien fought for words, but nothing decent surfaced. Her cheeks pink, Ediva returned to her seat. “He...surprised me, ’tis all.”

Was that all it was? Nay. From her expression, there was more. He paused, also hating how he couldn’t seem to form a sentence or even find the right words to say. “You...had been married for some time, surely. You are...old.”

Silence followed, with a sudden tension Adrien had felt only before battle. All he’d meant to say was she was old enough to know what some men want. Obviously, his English needed work.

Unless the departure gift was...

His blood ran cold.

Slowly standing, Ediva turned to him. “Old? Old!” The word bounced around the quiet room like an angry bee in a clay pot. “Am I a battered pan into which you slop bones and broth for your sup?”

She wiped her eyes furiously. “I am many things, my lord, but I can tell you with much certainty, that I am not old!”

Snatching up her hem, she limped past him and threw open the heavy oak door with the ease of a man twice her size. As it slammed against the wall, she did her best to stalk from her solar with as much dignity as her bruised and aching body would allow.

Standing there, Adrien felt a pair of eyes lingering on him. He found Harry, the young whelp Ediva had assigned as his squire, peeking into the solar. The boy barely reached his elbow and was as clumsy as a half-grown pup, but he lifted his brows and shook his head like a wise old man.

“What’s your problem, boy?”

The boy’s French was horrible, but he understood. “Milady don’t like to be called old. Even m’maw and my sisters don’t like being called old.”

Adrien scowled at him. The boy colored, appropriately so, in Adrien’s mind. Harry quickly turned away, but as he did, Adrien caught his arm. “What kind of man was her ladyship’s first husband?”

The boy looked around him, as if to confirm they were alone. “I didn’t know him well, sir. But I remember seeing her ladyship in the kitchen garden after he left, tending herbs. All covered up.”

“Of course she’d cover herself. She’s a modest woman. And what do you mean, tending herbs? The lady of the keep does not garden, boy.” Did this child think he could lie to his master?

“She likes to tend the herbs, she says. M’maw says she needs the peace.”

“She needs— Why?”

“M’maw said his lordship had his way before he left. She said that his lordship didn’t deserve her.”

Adrien’s stomach turned as his suspicions deepened. Why hadn’t he seen the signs before? She’d practically told him that the only good that came out of Hastings was her husband’s death. And the bloodstains told their own tale of a brutal man.

And here he had been, bullying her further.

Father in Heaven, I have sinned against You and against Ediva. My ways are of a soldier, not of a husband. Help her to understand me. And for me to understand her.

He strode out to find Ediva and confirm the truth from her. But, as he trotted down the curved stairwell, he reminded himself that she had her right to privacy.

Nay, he argued back, he needed to know the truth behind her first marriage. He could help her. He could—

Finding her in the herb garden that rolled down the short motte, Adrien paused at the open kitchen door. Behind him, water for her bath was being warmed over the hearth. Any words he’d formed in his mind dissolved instantly. She was seated at a wooden bench, staring at a patch of herbs barely out of the ground. The air still bore a crisp feel but promised spring. ’Twas the time of year that pledged new life, new growth—a new beginning. A new master for the keep who would not repeat the cruelties of the previous one.

Ediva needed to know that she was safe in her own home. He’d made a silent promise to God during his nuptials that he would honor his wife as God would want him to. Ediva deserved that much. And she should not have to leave her own solar just to find a moment’s peace.

She looked up at that moment, eyes hurt and hollow. He’d called her old, and he was wrong. She was broken, hurt by Ganute so much that Adrien actually regretted the man’s death. If Ganute was still alive, then Adrien would be able to teach him a lesson he would not soon forget.

With a stilling breath, Adrien forced out the violent thoughts. The Good Lord wanted him to show mercy and love. His new wife needed such. He walked toward her and wasn’t surprised when she turned her attention back to the garden. Sighing, he sat and took her hand.

“Ediva, I meant no insult when I called you old. ’Twas not a slight against your youth or beauty.”

She didn’t move. He pressed on. “I’m a soldier, Ediva, not a fine prince who knows the ways of courtship. And we both know you’re not a maid.”

She looked at him, blinking. “You don’t know that.”

He frowned. “I do. You were married to Ganute for five years.”

“I could still be a maid.”

Adrien shook his head gently. “We both know that’s not so. Were you ever with child?”

“Nay, I gave him no children.” Her gaze darted about. “Some said God made me barren to punish me.”

“For what?”

She bit her lip. “For not giving my all to Him. For not rejoicing in the marriage consecrated in His eyes. For turning my back on Him when I was—” She cleared her throat. “The chaplain would tell me to pray for Ganute’s safety in battle.” She glanced up at him and he saw a fierceness there as her voice dropped. “If I had prayed, ’twould have been for his death, not his life.”

Ahh. ’Twas the reason for the backward fealty to William. She owed the king because one of his soldiers had ended her misery.

His breath drew in sharply. He’d fought at Hastings, following the king who’d led the battle. Adrien had slashed his way through several Saxon knights that day.

Had Ganute been one of them?

Still, her words about God... Was she not a Christian woman? The tutor his family had employed had said once that some hearts were closed to the Lord.

Was she hard of heart?

Ediva blinked rapidly again, offering the real answer. She was as hard-hearted as a kitten. She was simply afraid to trust—in man or in God. Life had scarred her.

He lifted her hand, smooth and cold and shaking. He tightened his grip to warm it and prevent it from slipping free. “Ediva, God doesn’t punish those who are already hurting. He has mercy.”

“Mercy?” Her brows shot up. “There was no mercy for five years. Not even from my own family. I was told to endure my marriage because ’twas my duty to my family.”

Glancing around, his gaze fell on a bare vine clinging to the sunniest wall of the bailey. Buds were swelling on it. He dug through his memories for something to say. As third son, he’d been expected to serve the church and had studied with monks for much of his childhood. Surely there was some Bible story... “Ediva, God prunes the vine so it will produce good fruit. You must have produced good fruit, for God does not prune that which produces no fruit at all.”

She shook her head. “I told you I am barren.”

“Fruit isn’t babes only, Ediva. The respect you have here and the care you show for your staff that leads them to care for you are all good fruit. Even for the short time I have been here, I can see you all care for each other.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re a soldier. How do you know these things?”

“I’m not the firstborn son, so I was expected to serve God instead of lead the family.” He pulled her slightly closer but not so close as to scare her. “Enough of me. Ganute was cruel to you, wasn’t he?”

She nodded. Shaking his head, he leaned forward. Immediately, she drew back, too quickly for the cause to be anything but instinct.

His stomach tightened. “Don’t be frightened. Never will I force myself upon you. There is no honor in hurting a woman, Ediva.”

Her short, wobbly laugh brushed his cheeks. “We are married and the king has ordered children.”

“I will handle the king. He won’t expect babes overnight.” He shook his head. “We may be married, but until you find it in your heart to accept me as husband in every sense, I will demand nothing from you. Nor will you be bruised and beaten at my hand or anyone else’s. I promise you that.”

And along with his vow came the urge to press his lips against hers, to warm her very soul. He began to lower his head...

Abruptly, she pulled back her shoulders and steeled her spine. “Adrien, you say that God has been pruning me. But I fear He’s not done yet. Look around. All I own has been given away by a king as brutal as Ganute.”

“William is not brutal!”

“Ha! Did he not herd me to London like a sheep for slaughter, then not feed me so I would be weak and compliant? He has no care for me—no more than Ganute cared for me. No more than God cares for me. Don’t say that God allows me to suffer to make me a better person. I have no desire to hear anymore of how good God is.”

She pulled free her hand and held it up as she flew to her feet. “Nay! Keep your peace and your God because I don’t want either. But remember this. You promised me you’ll not touch me ’til I am ready. I will hold you to that.”

She spun and stomped up the stone steps into the kitchen, leaving him alone among the herbs only just budding from the cold, damp earth.