Читать книгу Married To Her Enemy - Jenni Fletcher - Страница 12

Chapter Four

Svend galloped to the head of the valley, trying to outrun his bad mood. She was maddening! Barely a slip of a woman, but what she lacked in size she more than made up for in temper. She hated Normans, that was obvious, but why couldn’t she understand that he was simply her escort, not her enemy? All he wanted was to get her to Redbourn as quickly and uneventfully as possible. Was that too much to ask, or was she going to argue with him all the way?

He placed a hand on his chest, vaguely surprised to find himself still in one piece. Had he taken leave of his senses, handing her a knife? What had made him so certain she wouldn’t use it? He grimaced. He hadn’t been certain at all, but something in her face had made him want to find out. The desire to test her had outweighed everything else, even self-preservation.

Well, now he knew. She didn’t want to kill him—not today at least. That was a minor improvement.

He rubbed a hand over Talbot’s neck, slowing the destrier to a trot. On the other hand, her anger that morning had been largely his fault. He shouldn’t have mocked her as she’d tried to mount the palfrey, shouldn’t have deliberately provoked her temper, but it had been easier than admitting the unwelcome urges she’d aroused in him. Those eyes...even when she was in a temper they lit up her whole face. He could hardly keep his own off her. Checking her for weapons had been harder than he’d expected—in more ways than one. When he’d finally lifted her up, wrapping his hands around her waist and feeling the soft pliancy of her body beneath, it had taken all his self-control to release her again.

He clenched his jaw, resenting his orders anew. He was a warrior, not an escort. He ought to be hunting rebels, not escorting Saxon ladies! Women had no place in his soldier’s world—especially this woman, who somehow angered and appealed to him in equal measure. He couldn’t help but admire her feisty spirit, the way she flared up like a spark catching light, but she was more than infuriating. If she were anyone else he might enjoy watching the sparks fly, but she wasn’t. She was his prisoner, and if he had any sense he’d keep as far away from her as possible.

If it were only that easy... Redbourn was still three and a half days’ ride away. And suddenly that seemed like a very long time.

* * *

Aediva awoke with a jolt, catching her breath as the earth swayed and then righted itself in front of her. Quickly she hauled herself upright, half amazed, half alarmed to have fallen asleep in the saddle, the night’s exertions finally catching up with her.

Blinking rapidly, she glared at the back of Svend’s broad shoulders, easily visible at the head of their small procession. He hadn’t so much as glanced in her direction since they’d left Etton. Not that she cared, but he was supposed to be her escort. He might have checked that she was all right—not left her to fend for herself. It would serve him right if she fell off her palfrey and broke a leg. Let him explain that to FitzOsbern!

She stole a furtive glance at the rest of his soldiers. There were around a dozen of them, most as grim and indomitable-looking as their commander, though a few were younger. One of them had a swollen eye, she noticed. It looked a fresh wound too.

She put a hand to her mouth, stifling another yawn. If she could only rest for a while... Her head lolled and her eyelids drooped. No! She mustn’t fall asleep. If she fell from this height it would be a lot more dangerous than from the ponies she was used to. She had to stay awake...even if she just dozed for a moment...

She felt a sudden strong grip on her arm, snatching her back to consciousness.

‘I told you to get some rest last night!’ Svend’s voice was low and furious. ‘You should have slept!’

‘What?’ She looked around, disorientated, cheeks flushing self-consciously.

What was he doing there? She’d been dreaming of a man with white-yellow hair and a smile so mesmerising it took her breath away—a man bearing so little resemblance to the one looming beside her now that she wrenched her arm out of his grasp indignantly.

‘Let me go!’ She tossed her head, trying to salvage some small shred of dignity. ‘I’m perfectly all right.’

‘Good.’ The ice in his stare could have caused frostbite. ‘We’ve a long way to go and we’re not stopping for you to sleep.’

‘I didn’t ask to stop! I told you I’m all right.’

‘Have you eaten?’

‘What?’ Now that he mentioned it, she hadn’t eaten anything since the broth he’d given her last night. Her mouth watered at the memory. No wonder she felt so light-headed.

‘I asked if you’d eaten.’ He sounded impatient.

‘I’m not hungry.’ She grasped her stomach quickly, stifling a growl. Why had he made her think of food? Now it was all she could think about!

‘Really?’ He raised an eyebrow sceptically.

‘It’s your fault for mentioning food!’

Glaring, she turned her attention back to the road. They’d been riding at a punishing pace all morning, but she’d hardly paid any heed to their surroundings, concentrating on staying awake. Now the road ahead looked vaguely and disturbingly familiar, like a scene from some half-remembered nightmare. They were at the far edge of Etton territory, where farmland gave way to scree and boulders. The next hill marked the furthest boundary of their land, and over there...

She pulled on her reins so fiercely that the palfrey stopped with a jolt, almost throwing her head-over-heels into the dirt, but she didn’t notice. All she could feel was the cold sweat on her brow and a heavy pounding like a hammer in her chest. She knew this place—knew every detail of the landscape, every rock and boulder, just as it had been on the day she’d ridden to her dying father’s side. She hadn’t ridden this way since—hadn’t wanted to come back. Not ever.

Desperately she gulped for air, caught off guard by the sudden onslaught of emotion. How could she not have noticed the route they were taking? She could have prepared herself, or at least tried to. Now she felt as though she were falling apart at the seams. But she couldn’t cry, couldn’t show weakness—not in front of him!

‘What now?’ Svend glanced back over his shoulder, his look of impatience giving way instantly to one of concern. ‘Lady Cille, what’s the matter?’

She shook her head, unable to speak, tried to gesture instead.

‘There’s something wrong with the road?’

He sounded confused and she dragged her eyes to his, trying to communicate without words.

He swung around instantly, summoning his men with a few curt orders.

‘We’ll curve through the next valley and re-join the road later. Is that better?’

She heard the words, but could hardly take in their meaning, her whole attention fixed on the track ahead. Now she was there she couldn’t drag herself away. Ghostly figures filled her imagination...the past replaying itself in the present. Where had her father fallen? She sought for the place, her gaze settling at last on a large lichen-covered boulder. There, next to that rock, was where she’d found him—too late to help, too late to do anything but grieve.

‘Lady Cille?’ Svend moved across her line of vision. ‘Come away.’

Without waiting for assent he took hold of her bridle, steering her aside as she wiped the tears from her face with her sleeve. She hadn’t even known that she was crying; the tears had seeped out of their own volition.

At last her heartbeat returned to normal and she looked around again. They’d re-joined the road at the end of the valley and were riding up into the hills, avoiding the quicker route through the marshes to the south. She understood the Normans’ reluctance to enter the low swamplands. It was too easy to get lost amongst the tall reed-beds or mired down in a muddy quagmire. Not to mention that the men of the marshes were known to be a law unto themselves, and the swamps provided the perfect setting for an ambush. Only the most inexperienced or reckless of leaders would enter such terrain lightly, and she had the strong feeling that her captor was neither.

She glanced towards him apprehensively, expecting questions, but he stayed silent, face averted as if to give her privacy.

‘You must wonder why...’

He made a dismissive gesture. ‘You don’t need to explain.’

‘No, but...’

She faltered. But what...? But she wanted to tell someone? She’d stayed strong for so long—for her people, for Cille—that she thought the words might burst out of her. No, she didn’t just want to tell someone, she had to—even a Norman. Her grief was so deep it seemed to drown out every other emotion, even hatred.

She took a deep breath. ‘My father died there.’

‘Ah...’ He was silent for a moment, as if letting her words sink in. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘He was stabbed in a skirmish with Norman soldiers last winter.’

A muscle jumped in his jaw. ‘What happened?’

‘He thought he was defending his land, but he was a farmer, not a fighter. He wouldn’t yield, so a Norman soldier killed him. It might have been you.’

‘It wasn’t.’

His tone was sharp and she felt a momentary twinge of guilt. She shouldn’t have said that—not when he was being sympathetic.

‘How many soldiers?’ He sounded angry now.

She bit her lip, wondering how much she could tell him without giving away her real identity. Cille hadn’t arrived in Etton until almost a month after their father’s death, but surely there was no way he could know that.

‘There were four of them.’

‘Renegades, then, not a garrison. Were they wearing a crest?’

‘None that I know of. Why?’

‘If there were a way to identify them it might still be possible to bring them to justice.’

‘The Earl would side with Saxons over Norman soldiers?’

‘No. But there are other means.’

She glanced at him in surprise. He looked implacable now, every inch the warrior, fierce and forbidding, as if he might truly avenge her father. She felt a flicker of hope, quickly suppressed. Words were easy, but why would a Norman knight care about one murdered Thane? Yet something in his face told her he meant it.

‘Why?’ she demanded. ‘Why would you avenge him?’

He looked at her askance. ‘Because a man shouldn’t be slain for protecting his land or his people.’

She lowered her gaze, swallowing against the lump in her throat. That pit in her stomach had opened up again, cold and empty like a wintry chasm.

‘He was a good man.’

‘I’m certain of it.’

‘We were very close. When it happened...so soon after Hastings...after everything else... I felt like the whole world had collapsed. I’d never felt so alone. And ever since...’

She bit her tongue abruptly. Why was she telling him this? Of all people, why was she pouring her heart out to her enemy? No matter how carefully she phrased it, or how sympathetic he might seem, she couldn’t risk confiding in him. One slip and she might give everything away. He was the last person in the world she should talk to.

She pursed her lips, trying to regain her composure. She couldn’t risk Cille’s safety just to ease her own pain. No matter how much it hurt, no matter how badly she needed to talk to someone, she had to bury her feelings—just as she had for the past year. Like everything else, she had to bear them alone.