Читать книгу Married To Her Enemy - Jenni Fletcher - Страница 10
ОглавлениеEtton, near Peterborough, Mercia,
August 1067
Aediva shoved the full weight of her body against the heavy wooden gate, skidding in the mud as she finally dropped the iron locking bar.
Then she turned and ran. Back up the hill, back past the abandoned houses and scattered belongings dropped in the desperate rush to escape, back towards the Thane’s hall that stood, circular-shaped and slightly raised on a mound in the centre.
At the entrance she stopped, windswept hair tumbling over her face like a hazel and honey-flecked veil, glancing fearfully over her shoulder as if expecting to find an arrow aimed at her throat.
How long did they have? How long before the Conquest reached their door?
An hour if they were lucky.
Not long enough.
Then she blinked and the fear was gone, replaced by a steely determination. The Normans might be coming, but she had another, more urgent crisis to deal with first.
Breathless, she charged into the hall, skirting around the still-smoking central fireplace before bursting headlong into the birthing chamber.
‘How is she?’ She dropped, panting, into the straw by the bed. ‘Is the babe any further along?’
Eadgyth, the midwife, shook her grey head sadly. ‘Not yet. She needs to push.’
‘But she’s been pushing for hours!’
Aediva chewed her lip anxiously, still weighing their chances of escape. How could it be taking so long? How much more could Cille’s small body take? Every moment of delay brought the Normans closer towards them. Every moment increased the risk of capture, or worse. But Cille’s baby seemed in no hurry to be born.
‘What can I do?’
‘Nothing. All we can do is wait.’
Wait! Aediva caught her breath, trying to stave off the rising tide of panic, the feeling that her whole world—the Saxon world that she knew—was collapsing around her head. First Leofric, then her father and now Cille. Not to mention Edmund. The last year had brought so much heartache and suffering, surely she couldn’t lose her sister as well?
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to banish the memory of that morning: the dull thud of Cille’s swooning body, the terrible slow spread of blood through the rushes. News of the Norman soldiers’ approach had finally shocked her into labour, albeit not before time. The babe was already dangerously late, but Aediva had thought her older sister still asleep, not listening as she’d ordered their people to pack up and flee east, towards the Fens, one of the last strongholds of Saxon resistance. If it hadn’t been for that shock, they might all have escaped.
‘They’ve gone, then?’ Eadgyth handed her a cup of mead.
‘Aye.’
She took a long draught, listening to the heavy rumble of carts in the distance, wondering if she’d done the right thing. She’d made the decision on Cille’s behalf, just as she’d made every decision since their father’s death that last winter, taking over the day-to-day running of the village while her sister prepared for her confinement. Not that Cille had shown even the slightest interest in her inheritance. Since her unexpected arrival in the spring she’d seemed a mere ghost of her former self, barely talking let alone taking charge.
Which had left her to do it, acting as Thane in deed if not name, doing her best to behave as their father would have wanted. But then he’d never faced a Norman invasion! How could she know what he would have done? Would he have run away or simply refused to leave, like Eadgyth? Or put up a fight, defending Etton to the bitter and bloody end? Her heart suspected the latter, but her head had prevailed. What chance did Saxon farmers have against Norman soldiers?
Her gaze slid towards the leather curtain that separated the birthing chamber from the hall, as if she were expecting a horde of Normans to burst through at any moment. What chance did three women have?
She only hoped she’d done the right thing.
She leaned over and stroked the side of Cille’s face—her face, so like hers that they might have been twins, not sisters born two years apart. Every small feature seemed to mirror her own, from the sharply arched brows to the slightly pointed chin. Only their eyes told them apart. Cille’s a warm forget-me-not blue, soft and gentle as a summer’s sky, and her own a fiery brown with gold flecks flashing like lightning across them.
A tear seeped from the corner of one of those eyes now and she brushed it aside, reaching across to clasp Cille’s trembling hands between her own. The fingers felt damp and clammy, as if she were sweating and shivering at the same time. In mercy’s name, how much more could either of them take?
‘Take care of the baby.’
The voice was faint, but Aediva jumped, afraid that she might have imagined it. But, no, those were Cille’s eyes staring up at her, black orbs ringed with crimson shadows so large they seemed to drain the life from her small, sunken face.
‘Hush.’ She smiled reassuringly. ‘You need to save your strength.’
‘Please...’ Cille’s voice was ragged, but the look on her face was deadly serious. ‘Promise me. Take care of my child.’
Aediva caught her breath, hot tears scalding the backs of her eyelids. ‘I promise.’
‘There’s something else.’ Cille heaved herself up on her elbows, ignoring Eadgyth’s grunt of protest. ‘Something I need to tell you.’
‘Later. You need to...’
She left the sentence unfinished as she heard a noise outside—a faint rumble at first, building steadily to a thunderous crescendo. The unmistakable heavy pounding of hooves, and lots of them.
Warhorses!
A jolt of panic tore through her body. She’d thought she could control her emotions, but now that the time had come and all hope of escape was lost all she could feel was the rush of blood in her ears and the terrible, deafening thud of her own heartbeat.
Not yet! The plea echoed in her head. Not before the baby was born! They needed more time!
Cille sank back onto the bed with a gasp, her body convulsing with pain. Had she heard it too?
Aediva exchanged a look with Eadgyth, an unspoken message passing between them, and then reached under the bed and drew out a long iron broadsword. It was almost as tall as she was, and heavy to boot, but it was a formidable weapon. She only hoped she could wield it.
Briefly she glanced down at her dishevelled appearance. She’d barely had time to dress that morning, throwing on a simple homespun tunic that was already mud-stained and tattered. Her hair was even more unkempt, coiling down her back in a mass of tangles. She hadn’t had time to put on a headdress. Not that it mattered. What the Normans thought of her appearance was the very least of her worries.
She dropped a kiss onto Cille’s forehead and pulled back the curtain to the deserted hall. Now that the first rush of panic was over, she knew what she had to do.
She took a deep breath, willing her heart to stop racing. She couldn’t help Cille give birth, but she could keep the Norman invaders away until the baby was born. No matter what, she wouldn’t let them into this chamber.
No matter what. Or who.
* * *
Sir Svend du Danemark ran a hand through pale blond hair and swore fluently under his breath.
‘It looks like they knew we were coming.’
His squire, Renard, had a habit of stating the obvious.
Steel-blue eyes narrowed, taking in every detail of the terrain with the experienced gaze of a professional soldier. The base of the valley was a craggy gorge, split down the middle by a meandering river that carried water from the high hills to the east. There was no sign of habitation, just gorse and a scattering of twisted hawthorns, but as the river curved to the south, the land rose and flattened out into a ledge, revealing the stockade of a small, almost completely hidden settlement. No wonder it had taken so long to find.
Svend swallowed another oath. At this time of year the villagers should have been busy harvesting their crops, but the long strips of farmland were deserted. Instead he could see fresh furrows in the mud, tracks left by horses and carts. If they’d put out a banner the residents couldn’t have made their departure any more obvious.
‘Ten shillings if she’s still here?’ Renard persisted.
‘Twenty,’ Svend murmured, resisting the urge to knock his squire into the mud.
In truth, he would have paid a lot more to get this over with. Hunting a woman was no honourable task for a knight and he resented his orders—even if they did come from the King via his cousin, William FitzOsbern, the new Earl of Hereford.
Hawklike, his gaze narrowed in on the meagre earthen defences. What in blazes was Lady Cille doing here? The village was well hidden, but hardly a stronghold. What had made her flee a fortress like Redbourn and take refuge in such an isolated place? And why the hell was he wasting his time finding her? Surely the future of the Conquest couldn’t depend on one Saxon woman!
There must be something more important he could be doing!
He kept his thoughts to himself. He’d learnt to keep his own counsel a long time ago, preferring to live up to the reputation his men had ascribed him of being inscrutable, keeping his emotions well hidden.
‘Take the men and surround the palisade.’ He rubbed the light blond stubble on his chin with irritation. He needed a bath and a shave. ‘Let’s get this over with.’
‘You’re going alone, sir?’
Renard’s expression was anxious and Svend raised an eyebrow, not sure whether to be amused or insulted. ‘She’s only one woman.’
‘But it might be a trap. The Saxons might be hiding.’
‘Perhaps.’ He bit back a sarcastic retort. ‘But she’s more likely to come peacefully if we don’t scare the wits out of her.’
‘She might be armed.’
‘I’m certain of it.’
He placed a reassuring hand on the younger man’s shoulder. Renard was a good squire, and would make a fine knight one day, but he could be annoyingly over-attentive at times.
‘Don’t worry. You’ll be close by if she overpowers me.’
He winked, spurring his destrier forward before Renard could detect the sarcasm. The hill was steep but he surged fearlessly ahead, trusting his mount’s training and his men’s obedience as they thundered towards the stockade, his blond hair, worn to shoulder-length rather than in the cropped Norman fashion, streaming behind him like a banner of white gold, as if he were charging headlong into battle.
The wind tore at his face and he grinned, sharing his mount’s exhilaration. Talbot was a fine specimen, sixteen hands high at his grey shoulder, and worth every bruise it had taken to win him. Svend’s grin spread wickedly as he recalled the French Baron whose haughty dismissal of a fifteen-year-old farmer’s son had cost him his finest warhorse—not to mention his dignity before the then Duke William of Normandy.
It was the same day that he’d been plucked from a life of brawling in tournaments and offered training as a household knight—been given a sense of focus and purpose, a way to vent the anger of his past. His low rank hadn’t made him popular with the rest of the high-born squires at William’s court, but thick skin and quick fists had earned him a position he could never have dreamed of. Knighthood and a place in the King’s personal guard. It was no mean feat for the fourth son of a Danish farmer.
Not to mention an outlaw.
He drew rein in front of the wooden palisade and dismounted, tossing his cloak aside and drawing his sword from its scabbard in one fluid movement. The ground was muddy—hardly surprising after a week of near constant rain and mizzle—and it covered his boots in a cloying, sticky mess. Not for the first time he found himself wondering why they’d left Normandy for this fogbound, rain-soaked isle. He was heartily sick of the rough terrain, the appalling weather and, most of all, this search for a woman who seemed more phantom than flesh and blood.
Phantom. His mouth curved in a mirthless smile. That was what his men called her. Impossible to find, let alone to capture. They’d spent two weeks travelling in circles, searching for Etton’s hidden valley. And now, from the look of things, she’d eluded them yet again.
He muttered another imprecation. The Earl had promised to reward him on the King’s behalf upon his return to Redbourn—some share in the spoils of conquest for ten years’ loyal service—just as soon as he found the woman.
At this rate it would take another ten years.
He took his frustration out on the gate, shattering the wooden frame with one kick and sending the locking bar spinning ten feet into the mud. He frowned at the sight of it. If the gate had been barred from the inside there might still be a chance she was there. Foolish of him not to have checked, letting frustration get the better of caution, but no matter. The village was clearly deserted, the wattle-and-daub dwellings empty and abandoned.
He stalked between them, past broken pots and dropped blankets strewn haphazardly over the rough ground, as if the inhabitants had left recently and in a rush. He felt a now familiar twinge of unease. Clearly the fearsome Norman reputation had preceded them—bloodthirsty tales of retribution and punishment. The thought made him uncomfortable. Rule by fear was no just way to govern a country, but the King was implacable towards those who resisted his rule.
Svend wanted no part of it. For the first time in his career he found himself questioning his King’s methods. How could the Conquest ever be peaceful when Normans were so hated?
He reached the Thane’s hall and thrust his sword point-first into the mud. No matter what Renard’s concerns, if by some unlikely chance she were still hiding inside, there’d be little enough room for swordplay and he had no desire to fight a woman. He still carried his sax on his belt, but he had no intention of using it. He’d bring her by force if he had to, but he wouldn’t hurt her—not if he could help it.
Unlike a Norman fortress, there was no wooden door, just a heavy oxhide draped over the entrance. Cautiously he pulled it aside and stepped over the threshold. A shaft of light filtered in through a hole in the centre of the thatched roof, helping his eyes adjust to the half-darkness. As he’d expected, the hall was deserted—and yet something about the scene wasn’t right. The room was empty, not abandoned. And there was a strange sound coming from behind a partition at the back, like an animal whimpering in pain.
He took a step towards it and then stopped, realising his error a split second too late as the blade pricked the back of his neck.
‘Don’t move!’ The voice was soft but determined, and unmistakably female. More surprisingly, it was speaking in perfect French. ‘Raise your hands!’
He did as he was told, annoyed by his own complacency. He’d been caught out like some raw, callow recruit—but then he’d never expected to find her completely alone. Where were her men? Surely there was somebody here to defend her?
He put his hands on the back of his head, starting to turn. ‘You’re a difficult woman to find, Lady Cille.’
‘Stop! Stay as you are!’
The blade pressed harder against his skin, but he detected a faint tremor. She was afraid.
Briefly he considered disarming her. The position of the sword told him everything he needed to know about her combat skills. A more practised opponent would have pointed the blade to his throat. But he decided to try diplomacy first.
‘My name is Sir Svend du Danemark. I mean you no harm.’
There was a lengthy pause as he waited, inhaling the sweet, heady scent of summer flowers, which reminded him of his home in Danemark.
Fool. He didn’t have a home. He’d left his parents’ farm half a lifetime ago.
‘My lady?’ He prompted her, pushing the memory aside.
‘How did you find me?’ She spoke slowly, as if choosing her words with care.
‘With difficulty. Etton isn’t an easy place to find.’
‘And what do you want from me?’
He felt a flash of irritation. If she thought to interrogate him she’d be swiftly disappointed. Even so, the hint of steel in that soft voice was intriguing. ‘The King’s deputy sent me to find you.’
‘The King’s deputy?’ She sounded genuinely surprised. ‘Why?’
He paused, having considered the same question at length over the past weeks. It couldn’t simply be her value in marriage. As a Saxon noblewoman, and widow of ealdorman Leofric of Redbourn, she’d lend legitimacy to a Norman husband’s authority, but it was unlike FitzOsbern to expend so much time and effort on one who’d proved so troublesome. There had to be something else—something special about her.
He’d hardly been in Redbourn long enough to hear any rumours. The Earl had summoned and then dispatched him almost as soon as he’d arrived. But there had to be a reason. Somehow he’d hoped she might be able to tell him.
The blade pushed harder. ‘Have you lost your tongue, Norman whoreson?’
He grinned, having heard the insult numerous times over the past few months, though rarely spoken with such venom. Clearly Saxon ladies weren’t as sheltered as their Norman counterparts.
‘I’m not party to the Earl’s thoughts, my lady,’ he answered with exaggerated courtesy.
There was another cry from the back—less like an animal, more like a woman sobbing. His brows snapped together.
‘You can’t come in here!’
By the note of panic in her voice he could tell his assailant had heard it too.
‘I can’t?’ His voice was low and dangerous, all trace of humour extinguished.
‘You have to leave!’ Her voice rose higher, becoming hysterical as the blade shuddered against his neck.
It was time to end this.
He moved so fast that she had no time to react. In less than a heartbeat he was facing her, clamping his hands together over the flat sides of her sword and hurling it easily into the floor rushes, then hooking a foot expertly around her legs, knocking them out from under her so that she tumbled backwards, straight into his waiting arms.
It wasn’t a manoeuvre that he’d ever used before, usually preferring that his opponents stayed down when he disarmed them. But then none of his opponents had ever been a woman...and none so light and willowy as the one now cradled in his arms, the dark honey waves of her long hair rippling over his hands almost to the floor.
For a heart-stopping moment he thought he might drop her. It wasn’t because she was pretty, though she undoubtedly was. Her small face was that of a woman in her late teens or early twenties, lightly tanned with smooth, round cheekbones and a pair of pink bow-shaped lips. It was her eyes that held him. Unlike any he’d ever seen before, so wide and lustrous he might almost fall into them. What colour were they? A swirl of copper and gold, fringed with long black lashes, strange and beguiling as jewels.
He shook his head, trying to break the spell. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but the roundabout journey to Etton had hardly disposed him to think charitably of his quarry.
The change as her face contorted into an expression of implacable fury, was enough to render him speechless.
The knife was flicked out of her sleeve so fast that he was almost caught off guard. But a lifetime of fighting had honed his reflexes to the point that he caught her wrist instinctively, stopping the blade a hair’s breadth from his chest.
‘Norman pig!’
She shrieked in her anger and he heard voices outside, followed by footsteps running in their direction. He called out, ordering his men to stop even as she screamed and hurled herself bodily against him, sending both of them sprawling into the rushes.
Svend landed heavily, trying to shield her from both the fall and herself as she thrashed recklessly against him, heedless of the blade still between them, pummelling at his chest as if she wanted to pound him into the ground. The scent of flowers filled his nostrils—honeysuckle and daisies, like a meadow he wanted to bury his face in. He tossed the weapon aside and captured her arms above her head instead, clamping his hands over her wrists like iron manacles.
Still she refused to yield, flailing against him like a cornered animal, fists beating impotently at thin air. He felt a vague sense of surprise. Pretty she might be, but she was also half wild, with an impressive temper to boot.
He rolled on top of her, pinning her legs to the floor with his own, struggling to keep his weight on his arms. She wasn’t the sort of woman he was accustomed to having beneath him, so slight and slender he was almost afraid he might break her.
Then he waited, letting her fury wear itself out. Trapped beneath him, she flung herself from side to side, arching her back and squirming as she tried to escape. Her small breasts heaved against his chest and he felt a stirring in his loins, quickly suppressed. This was hardly the time for such thoughts, but her endless writhing was bringing to mind other, more enjoyable pursuits.
‘I’m not going to hurt you!’ he muttered through gritted teeth, dragging his mind away from the snug fit of her body beneath his. He’d never taken advantage of a vulnerable woman before and he wasn’t about to start now. If she’d only stop wriggling...
‘Scum! Son of a Norman bitch!’
She kept on thrashing against him, venting her anger in a torrent of what he assumed was Anglo-Saxon abuse. Long hazel hair tumbled over his chest like a silken blanket, stirring his senses, and his gaze fell to her lips. They looked full and soft and suddenly desirable. But her eyes...
If looks could kill he’d be dead a hundred times over. Her eyes were aflame with anger. He couldn’t blame her. He was a Norman and she’d lost her husband at Hastings. He’d seen the same look of raw loathing in the faces of her countrymen every day for months, and yet it unsettled him to see it so close. He wanted her to look at him with something other than hatred, with a very different emotion...
Damn it, he must have been without a woman too long if he was drawn to this Saxon wildcat.
With an effort, he steered his thoughts in a different direction. Why was she still resisting? He felt an unwanted flicker of admiration. From long experience he knew that most opponents would have surrendered by now, but by the determined gleam in those fiery eyes it was clear that she’d never submit. She would fight to the bitter end.
And he didn’t want to fight her. She was just one of the Conquest’s many victims—a woman whose whole existence, like that of her people, had been overturned by the Norman invasion—but at that moment he was the one holding her down. And he didn’t want to.
Something inside him rebelled. He’d seen enough injustice in his life, didn’t want to be a part of any more. He was a warrior, but he was also a man, and something about this felt wrong. He wouldn’t be the one to defeat her.
He released her abruptly, letting her push back against him until their positions were reversed and she was sitting astride him, legs straddling his thighs, her whole body coiled to attack. With a cry of triumph she snatched up the knife and swung her arm back, as if making ready to plunge it into his heart.
Then she froze, her expression suddenly stricken as the knife hung motionless in the air.
At the same moment, the curtain swung open and Renard stood framed in the doorway, his jaw dropping at the sight before him.
‘Sir? Should we come in now?’
Svend’s gaze remained fixed on the woman looming threateningly above him. He flexed a wrist, ready to deflect the knife, but he didn’t think he would need to. She was panting heavily, her chest rising and falling as if she’d been running, but she looked dazed, as if she were only seeing him for the first time.
‘Renard.’ He addressed his squire as if there were nothing unusual in the scene. ‘It seems you were right to be cautious. We’ve found our phantom. This is Lady Cille.’
