Married To Her Enemy

‘What do they want?’

‘Nothing to worry about. And some of the soldiers are staying to make sure you’re safe, so there’s no need to worry. Just get better.’

The baby stirred in her arms and she passed him carefully to Cille, smiling at the sight of his round pink face.

‘His hair is so dark,’ she mused aloud. ‘Darker than either Leofric’s or yours. Maybe he takes after someone else in the family...?’

She stopped mid-sentence, taken aback by the horrified expression on her sister’s face. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I wanted to tell you...’ Cille’s eyes brimmed with tears. ‘I tried to, but I didn’t know how...’

‘What?’ Aediva felt a shiver of panic ripple down her spine and pool in her stomach, hardening there like a lump of ice. What was the matter? What could possibly be so bad?

‘You’ll hate me...’ Cille’s voice was almost inaudible.

‘No! You can tell me anything.’

‘She’s delirious.’ Eadgyth bustled between them suddenly, taking charge of the baby as she jerked her head towards the curtain. ‘You should be going.’

‘But—’

‘I’ll take care of her.’ The old woman gave her a pointed look. ‘You do your part. Before he gets suspicious.’

Aediva leapt up at once. Eadgyth was right—there was no time to talk. If she didn’t hurry Svend would be back. And this time he might pay closer attention to the resemblance between the two sisters. Whatever Cille wanted to tell her would have to wait. Right now she had to get Svend away from Etton before he guessed the truth.

‘I’ll be back soon.’ She forced a smile, already hastening towards the curtain. ‘You can tell me what it is then.’

‘Wait!’

She ignored the plea, scooping up a cloak and flinging it around her shoulders as she flew through the hall, trying to shake off a vague sense of unease. What had she said to upset Cille? She struggled to remember, but her memory felt as wrung out and weary as the rest of her body. Something about the baby’s hair...?

Clearly she was more exhausted than she’d realised. Her thoughts were in chaos. She’d have to think on it later, after she’d had some rest...

She stepped outside and the cold air hit her full in the face, sending her reeling backwards. The evening before had been mild and still, but this morning she could almost believe it was winter again. She clutched the cloak tightly beneath her chin, wishing she could turn around and go back inside.

‘Just in time.’

She frowned at the sound of Svend’s voice. He was standing to one side, arms folded as he leaned against a towering grey destrier. From a distance his posture looked relaxed, but close to, she could see there was nothing casual about him. He was watching her as a falcon might size up its prey, as if half expecting her to run, his whole body poised and ready for pursuit.

She caught her breath. The rest of the stockade was empty, so that for a moment it seemed as if they were completely alone—the only two people left in the world, facing each other across a deserted, windswept village.

‘Where are your men?’ She glanced around nervously. ‘Surely we’re not travelling alone?’

He grimaced. ‘Believe me, I find that idea as appealing as you do. My men are waiting outside the stockade.’ Blue eyes had frosted to ice, hard and unrelenting. ‘I take it that you’re finally ready?’

She inclined her head. From the tone of his voice it wasn’t a question. She wasn’t about to dignify it with an answer.

‘Good. Raise your arms.’

‘What?’

He ignored the question, closing the distance between them in a few swift strides.

‘What are you doing?’ she spluttered as his fingers tightened over her forearms.

He was standing so close to her that their chests were almost touching. If she took a deep breath, surely they would touch. Not that she could. Something about his proximity made her breathing too shallow, too rapid. Could he tell? Towering above her, he seemed to be watching, waiting for something. For a fleeting moment she thought he was going to lean closer, and yet her body seemed to be frozen, unable to pull away...

Suddenly he hoisted her arms out to the sides, running his hands along their length, all the way from her shoulder blades to her wrists.

She felt her cheeks flush scarlet, too shocked even to protest. What on earth was he doing? Did he think he could insult her just because she was Saxon?

His hands swooped around to her back and she jerked against him indignantly. ‘Let me go!’

‘As you wish.’

He released her at once and took a step backwards, scrutinising the rest of her body.

Comprehension dawned at last. ‘Weapons again? There isn’t much room to hide a sword.’

‘You’d be surprised. Show me your feet.’

She stared at him, tempted to laugh, though judging by the look on his face he wasn’t joking. Far from it. With or without her help, he was going to see her feet. Tentatively she lifted her gown, just enough to reveal brown leather boots.

He crouched down, frowning with concentration as he felt around the rims of the leather. For a moment his fingers brushed against her bare skin, and she shivered as a new, tingling sensation raced up her legs and between her thighs. This was intolerable. What could she possibly hide in her boots? It would serve him right if she kicked him full in the face.

‘I wouldn’t.’

His voice was barely a murmur and she stiffened guiltily.

‘Wouldn’t what?’

‘I wouldn’t do it.’

He sat back on his haunches, catching her eye with a look that she couldn’t interpret.

‘If I were you.’

She squirmed uncomfortably. He was still crouched down beside her, the top of his head level with her waist, his eyes speaking a language her brain didn’t understand. Only her body... Somehow her body wanted to respond.

She shrugged her shoulders, feigning innocence. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘No?’ He cocked an eyebrow as he stood upright again. ‘I’m glad to hear it. I had a feeling my head was about to be used as a football.’

She pursed her lips, swallowing an insult. ‘I thought you said we were in a hurry?’

‘We are, but I’ve found it best not to take chances where you’re concerned, Lady Cille. I never knew Saxon women were so violent.’

‘And I never knew Norman men were so easily frightened.’

His eyes flashed, though whether with humour or anger she couldn’t tell.

‘Can you ride?’

‘Yes.’ She blinked at the abrupt change of subject. ‘That is...’

She peered around him, past the grey destrier to an only slightly smaller brown palfrey, and her mouth turned dry. She’d never been much of a horsewoman and the animal was substantially bigger than the mounts she was used to.

‘Our horses are smaller.’

‘It doesn’t make much difference. The basics are the same. Here.’

He offered a hand but she ignored it, lifting her chin as she brushed past him and grasped hold of the reins. It was a long way up, but she wasn’t going to show fear—not to him or any other Norman. And she wasn’t going to accept help either. Not if she could help it.

She took a deep breath and heaved, hoisting herself up, and almost into the saddle before she stopped abruptly, feeling the tug of her skirt trapped beneath her boot in the stirrup, holding her back. Desperately she tried to scramble upwards, but it was no use. The horse was shifting impatiently and she could feel herself sliding.

‘Aren’t you going to help me?’ She swallowed her pride, squealing in panic.

‘Aren’t you going to ask?’

‘Help me!’

‘Please...?’

‘Please!’

At once she felt his hands around her thighs, lifting her up and depositing her in the saddle with an inelegant, unladylike thud.

‘Thank you.’ She tossed her head, refusing to look at his face, vividly aware that her own was flaming red. This was mortifying. Even her thighs felt red-hot where he’d touched her, as if she were blushing all over.

‘My pleasure.’ He swung up onto his destrier, his voice brimming with wicked amusement. ‘I’ve never seen anyone mount a horse like that. Is it some kind of Saxon custom?’

She rounded on him fiercely. How dared he? After everything else that had happened over the past twenty-four hours, how dared he make fun of her too? Anger, hot and raw, coursed through her veins as her taut emotions finally snapped.

‘What do you know about Saxon customs? What do you care? All you want is to destroy them! Isn’t that what Normans do? Destroy anything, anyone, who gets in their way!’

There! She felt a surge of triumph. That had wiped the smile off his face. There wasn’t a single trace of humour left in it now.

‘It’s not what we all do.’

His voice was dangerously quiet but she kept going, unable to stop herself from venting her anger.

‘You only want us to lie down and surrender!’

‘It would be best if you did.’

‘Well, we won’t! We might have been beaten, but it doesn’t mean we’ve surrendered. We’ll rise up again and fight!’

‘Do you think that you’ll win?’

She inhaled sharply. His voice was expressionless, but the quiet certainty behind his words made them all the more chilling. He wasn’t really asking her a question, he was giving her an answer. For a moment she felt as though she were facing the whole Norman army—one that the Saxon rebels could never hope to defeat.

‘And as I’ve told you before...’ his voice held a note of warning ‘...I’m not Norman.’

‘You’re still with them. What’s the difference?’

‘We’re not all the same.’

‘If I had my way I’d plunge a dagger into your heart—into every single Norman heart!’

She gasped, surprised by her own vehemence as he regarded her sombrely.

‘That’s quite a threat. And not one to make lightly.’

‘You think I don’t mean it? After everything your Conqueror has done?’

She lifted her chin defiantly, too angry to back down, thinking of her father, of Leofric and Edmund—of all the men who hadn’t come back from Hastings. The Normans had destroyed her world. Of course she wanted them to pay for it! She should make them pay!

He held her gaze for a moment before reaching down to his belt, fingers closing over the hilt of his dagger. Slowly, inexorably, he drew the blade from its sheath, weighing the metal in his hands as if he were considering something.

Aediva felt her heartbeat accelerate wildly. What was he going to do? Punish her on the spot? Her stomach lurched. Of course he was going to punish her. He was a Norman and she’d just threatened to kill him. He couldn’t let such a threat go unanswered.

‘Go ahead.’ He flipped the knife in his hand suddenly, grasping the blade between his fingers as he held the hilt out towards her. ‘Do it.’

‘What?’ She gaped at him, uncomprehending.

‘Unlike my King, I don’t believe in revenge, Lady Cille. But if you do, if you think it will make one tiny scrap of difference, then go ahead. You have my permission.’

Aediva stared at the knife, dumbfounded. Was he serious? He looked serious. But surely he wasn’t going to hand her a weapon just like that? She couldn’t win so easily...could she? It must be a trick.

Her gaze locked with his, shock mingling with suspicion. ‘Your men would arrest me.’

‘Renard!’

She jumped as his shout broke the stillness. Her already ragged nerves were in tatters. What now? Was he going to offer her a lance too?

‘Sir?’ His squire came running through the gates, stopping short as he saw the blade.

Aediva blanched. Hadn’t they acted this scene before—just yesterday in fact? She hadn’t been able to stab Svend then. What made her think she could do it now?

‘Renard will act as witness.’ Svend threw a glance at his squire. ‘Whatever happens here is an accident, understand? No one should be punished for it.’ Then he looked back towards her, lowering his voice as if imparting some secret too intimate to be shared. ‘Will that satisfy you, my lady?’

Aediva licked her lips, trying to moisten them, her mouth too dry to answer. This wasn’t what she’d intended. In her wildest imaginings she’d never thought that he’d simply hand her a blade. She’d been angry, upset at leaving Cille, lashing out without thinking. Surely he didn’t expect her to go through with it? Wouldn’t actually let her attack him? But he was watching her steadily, waiting for her to do something. Was he testing her? Because if this was a challenge, she had to meet it. She couldn’t, wouldn’t let him win.

Slowly, she nodded.

‘Good.’ Svend jerked his head towards Renard, though his gaze never left hers. ‘You can go.’

Carefully she wrapped her fingers around the hilt of the blade, grasping it tightly to stop her hand from shaking. He relinquished his hold at once, letting her take possession as he pulled his leather gambeson swiftly over his head.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Renard cast a last anxious glance towards them, and then they were alone again. Why was he doing this? What was he trying to prove? Except for a thin tunic, his chest was now completely unguarded. She could see the flex of his powerful muscles beneath the linen, the sculpted hard lines of his chest.

‘So...’

His eyes seared into hers and she felt a jolt like a flash of blue lightning pass between them.

‘You have your wish, my lady.’

Her wish? She could hardly breathe. He was close—close enough for her to reach him if she dared. All she had to do was lunge forward. Just lunge and in another second it would be over. She tightened her grip, trying to strengthen her nerve. He was one of them—a Norman! She hated them! She should seize this opportunity, should avenge her people while she had the chance.

Except... It was too brutal, too barbaric. She couldn’t do it. Not like this—not with him offering her the knife as if it were some kind of favour. If she did she’d be no better than a Norman.

She shook her head, turning the hilt back towards him, feeling as if she’d both passed and failed the same test.

‘Good.’ He took the knife and stowed it away quickly. ‘I have enough on my own conscience, Lady Cille. I’ve no wish to be a burden on yours.’

She stared miserably at the ground, hardly noticing as he took up her reins, leading her towards the gate. Somehow the world seemed to have shifted beneath her. She felt numb and weary and overwhelmingly tired. She’d failed. At the moment of crisis she’d failed her people. And yet she couldn’t help but feel that he’d been right. What good would it have done?

‘I don’t have to be your enemy, Lady Cille. Believe it or not, I’ve no more wish to see bloodshed than you do.’

‘No?’ She couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice. From what she’d heard about Normans, she found that hard to believe.

‘No. I wouldn’t have harmed your sister’s people. You shouldn’t have sent them away.’

She looked up at him sharply. ‘How could I have known that?’

‘You couldn’t. But what kind of life did you think you were sending them to? Do you know what the King does to rebels?’

Her scalp tightened. ‘I’ve heard rumours.’

‘Believe them. And how far do you think they’ll get without provisions? They haven’t brought in the harvest yet. What are they going to eat?’

‘They’ll survive.’

‘Will they?’ His voice hardened. ‘How?’

She twisted towards him, battling a tidal surge of panic. ‘What if they come back? What if I go after them, persuade them to return?’

‘Too late. My orders are to return you to Redbourn as soon as possible. Besides, if the King ever hears that they ran he’ll tear down the village, destroy their tools and poison the earth. Etton will be naught but a ruin. Trust me—I’ve seen it.’

Aediva gaped at him in horror. How could he describe such an event so calmly? It was horrific! And it would all be her fault. She was the one who’d sent them away. She’d been trying to protect them, but she’d sent them to their destruction instead. The pit in her stomach was so deep she felt as though it were swallowing her up from the inside.

‘So they’re doomed either way?’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘Henri went after them this morning. He speaks some English and he knows what to say. If anyone can persuade them to come back, it’s him.’

‘You did that?’ She sagged forward, breathless with relief. ‘Why?’

‘Why wouldn’t I? I told you—I don’t believe in revenge.’

‘And you won’t tell the King?’

‘No.’

‘What if someone else does?’

‘Who? My men know better than to spread rumours. Unless you’re planning to?’

She shook her head vehemently and he gave a dismissive shrug.

‘Then there’s nothing to worry about.’

‘Nothing to worry about?’ Anger took over again. ‘Then why did you scare me like that? How could you be so cruel?’

‘Because you need to understand what you’re dealing with! You can’t go to Redbourn and threaten the Earl. You can’t speak of rebellion so lightly. Whether you like it or not, Lady Cille, the conquest is over and we have won. And I’m not your enemy—not unless you want me to be.’

He spurred his destrier forward then, cantering away as she stared helplessly after him, trying to make sense of her jagged emotions as they veered from anger to gratitude and back again. She was still furious, but if he’d sent Henri to rescue her people then she was in his debt too. Indebted to a Norman! The very idea made her blood run cold. How would she ever repay him? How could she repay a Norman?

She sat completely still, looking around at the narrow confines of her world, at the village and the valley where she’d spent most of her life. Etton and England would never be the same again. She hadn’t wanted to believe it, but it was true. The Conquest was over and the Normans had won. Even if she came back—even if her people came back—nothing would ever be the same again.

And if Svend du Danemark wasn’t her enemy, who was he?

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!