Читать книгу Bound to the Warrior - Barbara Phinney - Страница 14

Chapter Five

Ediva awoke early. The eastern sky was barely tinged with morning when she freed the vellum from the window. A hint of spring eased into the room, and she heard her maid roll over on her pallet. Margaret hated to rise early, and because there was no reason to today, Ediva let her sleep. Quietly, she grabbed her cloak and slipped from her solar to walk the parapet above.

Outside, she drew in cool air. She much preferred the warmth of summer or the insect-free autumns, but early mornings were wonderful any time of the year.

Ganute often had slept in, and after the nights she had wanted to forget, Ediva would slip down to the kitchens for a small bite of bread and some broth. She’d order her bath water and return to the parapet to wait for a servant to announce its arrival, reveling in the brief span of time that she had to herself and dreading her husband’s awakening.

Nay! That part of her life was over, she told herself sternly. Ganute was gone and her new husband had vowed not to touch her, a promise she meant for him to keep.

She had to remain strong and detached. Her husband did not need her—her people did. Dunmow lost too many men at Hastings, and when she’d surveyed the mourners the day she’d buried Ganute, far too many widows stared back at her, all needing strong leadership. And there were worries anew, with the uprisings to the north and Norman soldiers gathering in the town of Colchester ten leagues to their south.

“Let us pray such a high price shall never be demanded.”

Adrien’s words from last night rang unbidden through her head. She’d seen a heat in his gentle smile, like a fire whose coals looked deceptively cold but whose inner warmth could burn skin.

A flush rose in her, and she determinedly turned her thoughts away from the memory. The sun peeked over the ridge beyond to paint the battlement pink. Ediva could hear several roosters crowing in competition and a shepherd calling his sheep from their night pen to search out the tender grasses of early spring.

Another set of noises caught her attention. She leaned forward to peer down into the bailey but the thickness of the walls refused her curiosity.

She heard Geoffrey’s complaining voice, followed by Adrien’s sharp retort. Both voices rose like the mist on the distant hills.

Adrien sounded fully awake, unlike Geoffrey, whose sleepy petulance echoed in his tone. Adrien spoke of stakes, ropes and something she couldn’t catch.

Her husband’s voice rippled over her and her breath stalled in her throat. The wind rising did nothing to cleanse her of the warmth. Foolish, it was, to have a Norman’s voice command such a reaction from her. She was far from a slave to her body’s whims, having learned long ago to control herself. Even a shudder of revulsion could bring about a beating.

She heard a maid on the stairs. Mayhap the morning ablutions will set her mind on more important matters. Let Adrien wander around the bailey. ’Twould teach him real life, not the one of a nomadic soldier whose only task was to sit upon a high horse and direct soldiers.

She spent much of the next few days slipping out to visit the new mothers. Her only contact was with Margaret or her steward. Of that morning, Geoffrey would only say that Adrien had ordered a cleaning of the bailey and a meeting with the villagers.

When she’d asked about the coffers, Geoffrey said that after counting the coins within, Adrien had studied the ledgers but had removed nothing nor sent word to London. The only other act that had stood out in her steward’s mind was the fact that Adrien attended chapel each morning, something Ediva had long given up.

She had eyed Geoffrey for any hint that he might have joined his new lord in prayer, but the man gave nothing away and she refused to outright ask. With Geoffrey loyal to Ganute, and then to her, and with his dislike of Norman rule, she doubted the steward would switch allegiances, but rather do the minimum to placate his new lord. It wasn’t Geoffrey’s habit to go to the morning services because Ganute barely tolerated the chaplain in his keep, and Geoffrey believed he was better off favoring Ganute. Or mayhap the steward didn’t like being told what to do by the old priest.

The next Sabbath dawned much the same as the days before. Up early, and this time with a stool to help her, Ediva peered out over the parapet at the bailey below. Her brows lifted sharply at the sight below.

The bailey nearly sparkled with cleanliness and Ediva noted the extra freshness in the air. Young Rypan was dumping kitchen refuse into an enclosed pen instead of into the garden. Ediva hoped the soil in the garden would not lose its strength this summer.

“Do you approve, milady?”

She spun, wobbling on the stool. Adrien stood several feet away, having climbed the stairs on silent feet. He walked closer and peered down at the handiwork. “Be careful when you lean forward. You may fall, though I suppose the landing would be soft in the garden waste. I ordered all kitchen scraps to be put in there and not scattered.”

She stiffened. “My bailey was not filthy.”

Even as she said that, she knew what a long winter could do to a keep. But still, her servants were hardly lazy on that matter.

“Nay, this place is well-kept. But I want the kitchen and garden to remain clean. ’Twould do us little good if we became sick from all matter of rot scattered about.”

True enough. Regardless, she frowned. “How do you know of such things?”

“I have lived in camps with men and seen what makes even a strong man sick. In hot weather, ’tis worse. Do you not check a brook for dead animals before pulling water from it?”

“Aye. The midwife said a carcass fouls the water and makes one sick.”

“’Tis the same with all waste.” He paused, then with a frown, he added, “Ediva, I did not come up here to discuss the work I’d ordered. ’Tis the Sabbath, and you will come with me to worship.”

Ediva wanted to decline, but his tone made it clear ’twas not a question. Her appearance at the chapel on the Sabbath had been erratic, and when she did participate in the services, it was by rote. Why worship a God who had turned against her?

But her husband thought otherwise and expected her to kneel by his side in the chapel. She looked up into Adrien’s face, with its subtle challenge. And in that moment, she remembered Geoffrey’s report about Adrien and the coffers.

Oh, aye, she’d be wise to go through the act of worship again. King William would be looking for monies and taxes, and Adrien would make the decision as to what went to him. He would also decide who needed taxing. She needed to have Adrien, who the king seemed to like, on her side.

So she dipped her head in agreement, albeit reluctantly. “Allow me to change my tunic, my lord.”

She slipped past him and down to her solar. A few minutes later she found Adrien outside her door. He offered his arm as they climbed down the narrow stairs that led to the main corridor.

Many of the tenants and villagers had already arrived and stepped back to allow Adrien to lead Ediva into the chapel.

“G’morning, milord.”

“Morning, sir.”

“’Tis a fine day to worship the Lord, sir!”

The salutations given to Adrien from various tenants filled the quiet morning. Adrien answered each person, a smile here and there, a ruffling of some small child’s hair occasionally.

“’Twould seem you have impressed the villagers, Adrien,” she murmured with a sniff, feeling piqued that he’d managed to win over so many of her people so quickly. “The king would be proud of you, I’m sure.”

“’Twas not done for his benefit, Ediva. These people deserved to meet their new lord. There are many changes afoot, and they need to know who I am, first.”

“Aren’t you the good overlord, then?” she noted, her tone seasoned with sarcasm. “But a fine manner before plunder is still plunder nonetheless and these people can ne’er afford it.”

“I have seen your coinage. There is no reason to show yourself righteous when you have collected so much.”

She bristled all the way into the chapel. More than half the benches were filled, though the chaplain was nowhere to be seen. Geoffrey was already seated closer to the front than the maids and cook, along with his mother, the midwife. Everyone rose when she and Adrien entered.

“I noticed your pews are not sold,” Adrien said quietly.

“I did away with it. I see no reason to add to the church’s wealth by selling the benches on which people sit,” she hissed back. “Our chaplain speaks of poverty and yet charges for all manner of blessings. The grain in the tithe barn in Cogshale rots because there’s too much of it whilst my people go hungry. I refuse to sell parts of the church, as well.”

Ediva threw a sharp glance at Geoffrey. He’d been charged with such sales before Ganute had died, and she could tell he was straining to hear her private words.

“’Tis an acceptable practice,” Adrien answered softly as they walked toward the front. They reached the front pew and Adrien stepped back to allow Ediva to enter first. “Still, I understand. After you, my guardian wife who watches over our people so diligently.”

She huffed at his humor before sitting down. Behind the pulpit, the mural glowed with rich colors. Men with long beards, gentle eyes and adoring expressions centered Jesus, and ornate calligraphy invited the weary to come for rest. She looked away. She remembered Ganute had seen murals in bigger churches and ordered this painting. It had more to do with his snobbery than any piety.

Candles flickered. On her wedding day, the chapel had been strewn with scented herbs, saved since the fall, and the finest beeswax candles offered heat and light.

Ediva shut her eyes to the horrid memory. Ganute’s generosity on that occasion had a high price.

The service droned on, and the only pleasure Ediva took from it was a chance to watch her new husband. His handsome, dark profile caught the candlelight. The last time she was here, weeks ago, they’d gone through the entire service in nearly complete darkness, no candles at all because she’d refused to donate any.

But today warmth glowed across her husband’s face, a gentle light, flickering when the chaplain moved.

Curious, Ediva watched Adrien bow his head. He closed his eyes, and she focused on his mouth during a silent prayer. She felt her own lips part and a quiet voice within her mouthed the words with him.

His very handsomeness seemed to draw her closer. She found herself wanting to reach up and lay her hand upon his cheek, then drag it down if only to prove such good looks were real.

When he opened his eyes again, Adrien turned immediately to her.

Heat flooded into her face and she snapped away her attention. How did he know she’d spent the entire final prayer gawking at him? Aye, he was fair of face, but it meant nothing, she told herself. The moment of quiet solemnity had stirred her female heart, ’twas all. She drew in a restorative breath, hoping it would return her good sense.

But Adrien’s scent rolled into her. Mint and orris root, heady over the odor of beeswax, an incongruous mix.

She was too close, she decided, but she would not retreat further along the length of bench. ’Twas her chapel, her keep, her spine that kept her so close to her new husband. The chaplain offered a benediction and filed past to bless the people. But still, neither she nor Adrien moved.

Indeed, after a few breaths, those still waiting for Adrien to stand and file out simply gave up and left, starting with Geoffrey.

Adrien did not move until finally Ediva leaned forward. “My lord, ’tis time to leave.”

He continued to watch her. “Why are you in such a hurry to leave God’s house?”

She folded her arms. “The service has ended. Our meal awaits.”

“Jesus said He is the Bread of life.”

She gaped at him, having not heard such words since her youth. She looked away. “I would prefer my cook’s bread today, Adrien. ’Twill be fresh and will fill my belly.”

Adrien lifted a hand and slipped his fingers into the loose part of her wimple to touch her jaw. The veil on top, secured with a simple diadem, brushed his arm.

“Sir, remember where you are!”

His attention stayed focused on her. “I’m in church with my wife. And from the quiet around us, I’d say we are alone.”

Blood surged into her neck and she was sure he could feel her skin warm. “Adrien, you promised you would not touch me.”

“I promised you I would not expect my rights as husband until you accept me.” He leaned closer. “I’m only holding your attention.”

“For what purpose?”

He leaned dangerously close. Despite her rigid spine, she could barely keep herself still. She found herself struggling between the urge to pull away to protect herself and wanting to ease closer.

A mere hint of space lingered between their lips, but she refused to lean toward him. “I am not like your first husband, Ediva.”

Holding her breath to crush the instinctive wash of fear, she found she could do nothing to escape. His eyes held hers and his lips had begun a slow descent onto hers, sending her emotions swirling like snow in a winter storm.

She couldn’t endure much more. She could either give in to the kiss and be done with it, or pull back. But if she allowed the kiss, she would be allowing him power over her, something that she had promised she would never allow again. If she backed away, she risked the dangers she’d faced the first and only time she’d stood up against Ganute and his harsh demands for her wifely duties.

Nay, Adrien had given her his word, and despite the churning indecision, she knew deep down he wouldn’t retract it. They may be married and she may be willing to show courtesy due to his new rank and give the king his taxes, but she wouldn’t give of herself as she’d been forced to do many times before.

Testing the air that weighed heavy with expectation, she eased slowly back and felt with relief Adrien lowering his hand. A flicker of disappointment danced in his gaze but he gave her no word of reproach.

“’Tis time for our meal, Adrien,” she whispered shakily. “’Twill only be hot for a short time, and the day is cool for me.”

“You are quite warm, Ediva. A lie in the house of God isn’t good for one’s soul,” he answered blandly.

“I have no hope for my soul.”

Unexpected tears stung her eyes and she shifted away to blink at the mural. The Biblical offer of rest reached her watery gaze.

Beside her, Adrien sighed. He gathered her hands in his and held them gently. “There is always hope, Ediva.”

A moment later, he drew her hand up to his warm lips. She fought the tears filling her eyes. She didn’t want this foolishness between them. She didn’t want him to be patient and kind and to love God.

Pulling free her hand, she stood. “Our meal awaits us.”

He moved away. Thankfully, the tightness in her chest eased. Oh, ’twould be far easier to deal with Adrien if he was difficult and demanding. She’d learned years ago how to tuck her heart away from all her body could endure.

But right now, it felt as though her heart was out on a battlefield, ready for the final death blow.

She hated it.

* * *

Adrien pulled on the reins, bringing his mount to a stop. He’d risen early this mid-week morning, several weeks since his first chapel service with Ediva. Since then, he’d spent much of his time dealing with minor disputes, overseeing the cataloguing of all Dunmow Keep owned and other items of minutiae. Today, he decided to forgo morning chapel in order to inspect the estate’s potential, especially at the perimeter of the keep’s control. The king expected a full report, not only on the coffers, but also the viability of the land.

Atop the rise west of Dunmow Keep, he could see the River Colne, and to the north, the fens of East Anglia. Adrien’s new home would surely be the point where the upstarts against William and the king’s forces would meet. The land here was rich and fertile, worth fighting for.

He itched to return to battle. To do anything but what he’d come to Dunmow to do. Like an aging mare put to pasture, he found himself staring ahead at endless days dawdling about the keep. Aye, he’d met the villagers, inspected the coffers and viewed the records. His ancient grand-mère could have managed those things.

Under him, his courser stirred, sensing his edginess. Or mayhap the horse was bored of simply loping around a field without the disciplines of battle that, like Adrien, had been bred into him.

Adrien leaned forward to pat the stallion’s massive neck. “Aye, ’twould be good to fight again.”

Better than the dance he was doing with Ediva. He’d kept his distance the whole full moon cycle he’d been here, but she still seemed uncertain and skittish in his presence, as if she expected a blow at any moment. Only those few moments in the chapel weeks ago was he given the opportunity to close that yawning gap between them. Reaching her heart seemed almost within his grasp then, but she pulled away. And since that time, there had been nothing but politeness and distance between them.

Of what good would anything he tried be? He’d practically ordered her to the Sabbath services and, even then, he knew her heart was leagues away. So much good would come if she let God into her heart. He wanted that more than earning her trust.

But it would be nice to have both. Very nice.

After he sighed, Adrien urged the stallion forward toward the keep. He’d seen enough this morning, and with nothing in his belly, he was anxious to return for the noon meal.

And to see Ediva. Though the distance she enforced between them was a trial, he could not deny himself the joy he took in spending time with her. Even in the chapel where they kept the politeness to a fault, he valued their time together. The only mark on such time was the tension he’d felt between her and the chaplain. Entering the bailey, he spied Ediva. His wife. And yet, not his wife, save on some record kept by Poitiers.

She turned then, and her cyrtel, a pale pink like the roses that climbed the wall near the door, swirled with the movement. Her hair had been coaxed free of her simple veil by a warm breeze. Her wimple was gone, and he was glad to see her long, flaxen braids dropping down below her veil to rest upon her cyrtel.

She met his gaze, and then turned from it far too quickly. Unexpectedly, his heart sank. She still did not trust him even with her own shy looks.

Adrien walked his horse up to her. Thankful that she had the good manners to wait upon him, he nodded to her. “Good day, milady.”

“Good day, sir. You chose an early ride this morning.”

He dismounted. He towered over her as it was and certainly didn’t need the horse to add to it. When Harry ran up, he handed the boy the reins. With cheek enough to last his lifetime, the young squire threw them both a bold grin before leading the horse away.

“I chose this morning to view the fields. They’re good for livestock.”

“Aye, our beef and mutton are the best in the county.”

He agreed. But such was not on his mind. “Ediva, I want to ask you something.”

A guarded look shot across her features. “I may not know the answer.”

“You do know the answer, for it concerns only you. You don’t talk much to our chaplain. May I ask why?”

Her spine stiffened. “He often told me to obey my husband. When I discovered the nightmare I’d married into, I went to him for help for I had no family save some sisters I do not wish to trouble, as they are married and busy with their own lives. But the chaplain said ’twas my duty to obey Ganute for I was a temptress needing to be leashed.”

The flatness in her voice didn’t match the fire in her eyes. Stunned, Adrien reeled. “Leashed? You are not an animal, Ediva.”

“You called me a guardian in the chapel, as if I were a sheep dog.”

He felt his neck heat. “’Twas just a jest because of your desire to protect your people. I meant nothing that the chaplain might have meant.”

She feigned indifference as she shrugged. “Why should I obey a man who felt I needed to be hurt each night?”

He led her to a narrow bench, chasing away a pair of children playing on it. When they sat down, he could see the sun sparkling in her tear-filled eyes. His story of pruning the vine now sounded cruel. Why had he even mentioned it?

And why would the God who had blessed him so much turn His back on Ediva? His heart denied such an accusation, but the pain she’d suffered was clear, and God certainly had not blessed her with Ganute.

Why would a loving God allow her to suffer so? He shifted away from Ediva, who stared into the distance beyond the open gate, lips parted slightly, her upturned nose something he found himself wanting to kiss.

Mayhap her chaplain was right. Mayhap she was a temptress and needed a short rein. With her watering eyes and soft, pained words, was she coaxing him from his God? Was that even possible? After all, ’twas not her fault she was so beautiful.

He grimaced. He had devoted his life to fighting, not wooing women. He knew nothing of them, and his inexperience mocked him.

She looked down at her hands, then up to him, again with those watery eyes. He felt as though he’d kicked the timid dog that chased the cats for scraps. He should say something, anything.

Her face aflame, she stood. “I see you agree with the good chaplain. Your words may have been in jest, Adrien, but from the heart does the mouth speak. I see I have no one, not even God to help me.” She lifted her cyrtel to step away.

Snapping from his selfishness, Adrien leapt to his feet and caught Ediva’s wrist. “I have sanctioned nothing of the sort. My thoughts were not of that.”

When she yanked her arm back, he let her go. “What were they of, then? You looked at me as if I were something horrible.”

He scrubbed his face, hating that her intuition had led her to such an assumption. He simply didn’t know women well enough, and aye, he was suddenly afraid that she could so easily tempt him from everything he held dear. “You are not horrible, Ediva.”

“Ahh, your honeyed words. They do my heart good.”

He groaned at her sarcasm. He was not made for court, with fancy words and charm enough to choke a person.

A commotion rose by the gate, and both of them turned. Ediva, though, spun in the other direction where high upon the battlement, a man pointed to the south, past the village of Little Dunmow. He shouted something Adrien couldn’t understand.

“Soldiers and a wagon are coming,” Ediva translated. “The guard can see the royal standard.” She hurried toward the wall and its narrow stairs to the vantage point. A few feet into her march, she stopped and spun. “Mayhap the foolish king is looking for one of those babes he demanded. An impatient man, indeed!”

Adrien set his jaw. Her sarcasm scraped on his nerves like a blade on a grindstone. He barked out to Harry to fetch his weapon.

Thankfully, his sword arrived long before the soldiers. ’Twas the royal standard, but not the king who bore it. Adrien soon recognized his brother, Eudo, trotting merrily up on a horse as black as Adrien’s mood.

“Prado! I’m happy to see you!”

Adrien groaned inwardly at the baby name. Eudo, whose name was a derivative of Eudes, had taken a liking to Adrien’s middle name of Prades, giving it a childish spin like his own name. Adrien hated it, but his mother had said it meant rich fields, so he’d tolerated it. Until now.

“’Tis Adrien, brother, not Prado. Not even Prades, in case you prefer that,” Adrien said, sheathing his sword and catching the horse’s foamy bridle as his younger brother pulled to a stop just inside the gate. Eudo had ridden ahead. The cart and soldiers were still lumbering through the village. “Why the king’s standard? Do you have him hidden in the cart?”

Eudo swung off his mount and dusted himself off. “Nay, stealing the king away is yours and our brothers’ work, not mine.” Eudo smiled brightly. “I’m just a steward on his majesty’s orders, having been loaned his standard to ease my travels.”

Remembering the day, years ago, that he and his brothers had saved William’s life, Adrien growled back, “I am proud to have saved the king’s life that day in Falaise. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.” He patted the horse’s sweaty neck. “What brings you here in such haste? Surely the king’s standard would not ease your passage with rebels hiding in the woods?”

“When I learned your wardrobe was being dispatched, I decided your honeymoon was over and I wanted to visit you.” He glanced around. “Where is your lovely bride?”

Coming for just a visit? Adrien didn’t believe that for a moment. This was no social call. Eudo merely enjoyed the element of surprise too much to reveal his true purpose as yet. Adrien pointed to the battlement. “My sweet bride is up there, wondering if she needs to pierce your heart with an arrow to defend her keep. Or is it my heart she wishes to pierce? ’Tis more likely the case, so I suggest you move away from me. I don’t know how well she handles a bow.”

Eudo’s brows shot up. Ediva was leaning hard on the stone wall, which was lower than the parapet she frequented at the top of the keep. Her hands gripped the merlons, and she bore a harsh expression. Beside him, Adrien could hear Eudo’s indrawn breath. Ediva pivoted and hurried down the stairs and across the bailey to them.

“My lady, and now my sister,” Eudo bowed to her. “Forgive the unexpected visit. I’m here on the king’s order.”

Ediva shot Adrien a blackened glare.

Dread washed over him. All he could think of at that moment was his promise to her that he would decide what went to the king and when.

Eudo straightened. “Time to pay the taxes to the king.”