Saxon Lady

And Mathieu wanted to consume her. He slid his hands around her waist, touching the crests of her hips as he lowered his mouth to her jaw, then her ear and her throat, sipping, tasting Aelia. She was a powerful elixir, drugging him, dissolving his common sense.

And when he realized that, he pulled away.

Mathieu released Aelia so suddenly she stumbled back a step before regaining her balance. Her face was flushed and he saw confusion in her green eyes, but Gilbert de Bosc pushed open the door to the chamber and strode in before either of them managed to say a word.

“Your supper, Sir Mathieu,” he said, looking for a place to set the platter of food.

“Put it on the bed,” Mathieu said as two more of his men entered. They carried a large trunk and a washstand, and set them on the floor in the far corners of the room.

Mathieu sat down on the bed and made a deliberate show of turning his attention to the food. The kiss meant naught. ’Twas only to demonstrate his complete dominance over her.

“There are Saxons below who are ready to swear fealty to you, Sir Mathieu.”

“No!”

Shock and outrage rang clear in Aelia’s tone, but Mathieu studiously avoided looking at her. He poured ale into a cup and took a healthy swallow. “Give them a meal and have them wait for me.”

“You bribe them for their loyalty!” Aelia cried. “’Tis a thin mark of fidelity that you win here, Norman.”

Mathieu stood abruptly. “What makes you so sure, Lady Aelia? What has changed for these people, besides the name of their liege lord?”

“They—”

“Naught,” he said as he walked to the door. “They will go on as before, but in the future, they will have an overlord who will protect them.”

“Who will grow rich through their labors.”

“As your father did not?”

“Our people respected and revered Wallis! He was a fair and generous man—”

“Who overindulged his offspring. Cease your chatter now, and partake of this meal before it’s taken away!”

He walked out and let the heavy door slam behind him. “She is not to leave this room,” he said to the guards who awaited him.

“Yes, baron.”

He could not get down the stairs fast enough to suit him. The woman was impossible. Tedious. And he had more important things to do than dally with her in the chamber he planned to use for the duration of his stay at Ingelwald. He did not care whom it had belonged to before his victory here.

There was no weapon in the room. He wouldn’t leave her armed, but Aelia could not help but hope she would find a forgotten dagger among his things.

She pulled the door open, but came face-to-face with two Norman guards who would not let her pass. “Am I a prisoner here?” she demanded.

“Yes, my lady,” one of the men replied.

Aelia huffed indignantly and returned to her father’s chamber, slamming the door behind her. She hoped it fell off its hinges.

But when it did not, she was reduced to pacing the length of the room while she cursed her Norman captor. Repeatedly.

If she’d been hungry before, that kiss had taken away her appetite. What had she been thinking, allowing him such intimacy? The man had butchered her people and taken away their homes. He’d bound and imprisoned her brother, a mere child. And now he’d usurped her father’s own chamber.

The truth was, she had not been thinking. His kiss had been pure sensation—a tingling heat that had frozen her mind but warmed her body. She hadn’t realized that a simple kiss could do such a thing, and wondered if Fitz Autier had felt the same.

No, most likely not. Or he would not have broken away from her just as she’d begun to feel the same ravishing sensations she’d experienced the night before. Aelia took a deep breath and turned her thoughts to a more productive line. ’Twas pointless to give any further consideration to that kiss, or anything she’d felt while imprisoned in his tent.

She had to figure a way to defeat the Norman knight. Mayhap his army was stronger than hers, but if Aelia could kill Fitz Autier, his men would have no choice but to surrender and return Ingelwald to its rightful masters.

How was she to kill him? Without a weapon, there was little hope of that.

Aelia sat down on the edge of the bed and eyed the platter. She had not eaten since the night before, yet food no longer interested her. There was a gnawing pain at her center that had naught to do with hunger. Her belly roiled at her defeat, her imprisonment, her humiliation.

Her life should have been forfeit when Selwyn refused to surrender. Yet she still lived and breathed, while he lay dead in the courtyard.

The line of bodies had not been as long as Aelia had anticipated. Only twenty Ingelwald men lay dead, alongside another twenty Normans. Even so, none of those brave Saxons had had to die. If the greedy William had not sent his knights to every corner of England, there would have been no reason for the death and destruction wrought over these last two years.

Her father would still be alive.

Never had her need for his counsel been so great, nor her desire for his fatherly embrace. Aelia felt like a lost child again, frail and vulnerable, and in need of protection. Wallis had always provided that.

She pressed one hand against her chest as if she could hold in her anguish, and dropped to her knees beside the bed. Her father was gone and she’d had little time to shed her tears when, weeks ago, they’d put him in the ground. Tears pooled in Aelia’s eyes now as she lowered her head to the bed and wept for her father and Godwin, and all that had been lost.

Mathieu was weary of war. After two years of death and destruction, he wanted nothing more than to settle here at Ingelwald in peace. He was no fool, though. The Saxons of Wallis’s fyrd who’d just sworn fealty were no more loyal to him than they were to King William. They’d merely done the most expedient thing in order to get on with their lives.

Auvrai d’Evreux would remain at Ingelwald to deal with them and to keep order when Mathieu left for London. Auvrai would be the one to oversee the reinforcement of the protective walls, and the improvements to the hall. When Mathieu wed Lady Clarise, she would have an impressive home here at Ingelwald.

He picked up a lamp and started up the stairs toward the master’s chamber. Sleep would be a welcome amenity just now, but Mathieu did not know if he would be able to rest with Lady Aelia in the room. ’Twould be best if he found himself a bed elsewhere, but—

The rasp of unsheathed steel made Mathieu swing ’round abruptly and reach for his sword. The figure on the landing was swathed in shadow, but his blade gleamed bright in the lamplight, and it was poised to strike between the loosened buckles of Mathieu’s hauberk. Mathieu raised his sword arm in a gesture of resignation.

When the assailant moved slightly into the light, Mathieu saw that he was merely an adolescent boy with the downy fur of his first beard. However, the boy’s age would not keep him from moving in for the kill, Mathieu knew.

“The lady…” the lad said. “You have no right.”

His French was passable, though his accent was thick. His sword hand trembled.

“You would protect Lady Aelia from me?”

“She is lady of Ingelwald,” the boy said. “All men here protect…honor…her.”

All Mathieu had to do was toss the lamp to one side and pull away from the point of the sword. But throwing a candle, even though ’twas enclosed in the lamp, would be a perilous choice. The manor house was made mostly of wood, and the rushes on the floors were extremely combustible.

“Your devotion is admirable.” ’Twould be an easy task to disarm and kill this boy. But his death, when they’d just won peace here, would cause far more trouble than Mathieu wanted. Still, he would not be cowed by a youth with a weapon. “I intend no harm to the lady.”

“Release her!” the boy demanded.

Mathieu felt the sword pierce his flesh, and he gritted his teeth against the pain and eased away. “That will not be possible.”

He made a sudden feint to the right, pulling away from the boy’s blade. Raising his own weapon, he found ’twas an easy feat to knock the boy’s sword from his hand and back him up against the wall.

At the sound of the scuffle, guards from the hall below and the upper floor took to the stairs. When they arrived upon the landing in between, Mathieu already had the situation under control.

“Your loyalty does you credit,” he said, pulling the boy’s arms behind him. “And because of it, your life is spared.”

The Saxon, gone pale either with fury or fear, did not speak.

“What is your name?”

“Halig.”

Mathieu turned him over to the guards. “Lock him up with the others.”

“Lady Aelia is good woman, Norman,” the boy said. “You take her—”

“No harm will come to the woman as long as she behaves.”

Mathieu could not fault Halig for attempting to protect Aelia. ’Twas what he would have done had Queen Mathilda or any other innocent woman been in peril. But Aelia was no innocent. She’d donned armor and raised her bow against his men. Mathieu himself bore a gash upon his face as a result of her arrow.

Yet she had the loyalty and love of her people. Mathieu had taken note of the homage they’d paid her when she’d walked across Ingelwald’s grounds. Old and young alike revered her. ’Twas Aelia’s defeat—more than Selwyn’s—that had won Ingelwald for Mathieu.

He continued up the staircase, more watchful now as he approached the master’s chamber. One of the two guards he’d posted at the door was still on duty. Mathieu passed him and entered the room, half expecting an attack upon his life, even though he’d been careful to leave Lady Aelia no weapon.

Lamplight flickered in the periphery of the room, casting her sleeping form in shadows.

Her head lay upon her crossed arms on the mattress, but her body was curled on the floor at the bedside. Her eyes were closed, her breathing slow and regular. ’Twas as if she’d sat down beside the bed to await his return, but had fallen asleep instead.

The food on the plate was untouched, and Mathieu wondered when she’d last eaten. Earlier, she’d complained of hunger.

’Twas not his concern. If she refused to eat, he could do naught but watch her starve herself.

But he would put her to bed, then go and deal with his newest wound. Mathieu crouched down to pick her up, and she made a small sound, much like a sigh, yet more. ’Twas the sound of despair.

And there was moisture upon her cheeks.

Mathieu gathered her into his arms and lifted her to the bed, grimacing when her body touched the gash in his side. He didn’t think the boy had done much more than scratch him. Mayhap the wound was worse than that.

He lay Aelia upon the bed, then set the plate of food on the trunk, and covered her with his blanket. When she stirred restlessly, he moved away from her, quietly removing the battle horn that was still strapped over his shoulder. He lowered the heavy hauberk to the floor and walked toward the lamplight, unlacing his thin undertunic. The lower right side was covered with blood.

With a muttered curse, Mathieu pulled the sherte over his head and looked at the wound. ’Twas deep enough to need stitching, though not bad enough to cause him serious worry. He’d had worse, but he was going to need help tending it.

He opened the door and spoke to the guard, sending him to find Sir Auvrai, a man who knew more about healing than any surgeon Mathieu had ever known. Then he closed the door and went to the washstand, where a basin of water and several clean cloths awaited him.

Stitches were likely to chafe and bother him on the journey to London, but there was naught to do about it. He had no intention of putting off his return to William’s court, thereby delaying his betrothal. The sooner he wed Clarise and returned to Ingelwald, the better.

“What happened?”

Mathieu turned and watched Aelia swing her legs over the edge of the bed and stand. Even from across the room, he could see that her eyes were red-rimmed and wary.

“You’re bleeding. Did the mighty Norman knight suffer a mishap with his sword?”

“’Twas a lucky jab from your overzealous swain.” He turned away from her, but heard the floor creak under her feet as she approached. “Why are you not sleeping?”

“I never meant to sleep.”

Mathieu sucked in a breath when she touched the laceration.

“This needs sewing.”

“And what would you know of it?”

“More than I like. Give me that.” She took the cloth from his hand and swabbed the wound carefully.

“You didn’t eat.”

“Having a Norman in my father’s bedchamber turned my stomach.” Mathieu held his breath as she pressed the edges of the cut. Her touch was gentle, yet knowledgeable.

“You have some skill here, demoiselle.”

“Not by my choice, Norman,” she replied. “My father said ’twas a lady’s duty to tend the sick and injured of her estate. I learned all I know from Erlina—the old woman who lay dead in my father’s courtyard. She was a fine healer before her mind turned.” Aelia took a clean cloth and dropped it in the basin of water. “Whoever speared you missed anything important.”

“’Twas one of your admirers, defending your honor.”

Aelia’s hand stilled and she gazed up at Mathieu with contempt. “Did you kill him?”

“He was just a boy. Of course I did not kill him, even though—” A sharp knock at the door interrupted him. “Enter!”

’Twas the herald, Gilbert de Bosc, carrying the leather satchel in which Sir Auvrai kept his medicines. Gilbert was no warrior, but a man fluent in the Saxon tongue. Mathieu had never seen him wield a sword in battle and did not know if he would be able to defend himself if necessary. Still, he had his uses, besides functioning as an interpreter. His administrative skills were immense, and he was free to tend the sick and wounded. “Sir Auvrai will be here presently.”

“Tell him not to bother. Lady Aelia will attend me.” Mathieu took the satchel and handed it to her.

“Baron, are you certain—”

“Auvrai has more pressing duties, and the lady has convinced me she is competent.”

It seemed overwarm in the chamber. Aelia pushed open the shutters to let in the evening air before turning once again to face the Norman’s naked chest and rippling muscles. ’Twould not be possible to overpower him. Still, his sword lay nearby, and he’d placed her dagger upon the washstand. If she could—

“If you’re thinking of using the moment to do me some damage, demoiselle,” he warned, taking her blade in hand and stabbing the sharp tip into the wood of the stand, “I urge you to reconsider.”

Aelia bit her lip and pushed up her sleeves. “This will be easier if you lie on the bed.”

He pushed the wooden stool closer to the lamplight and sat down, letting his knees drift apart. “This will do.”

“You expect me to kneel before you?”

“Do what you will, demoiselle,” he said. “But get the sewing done.”

He raised his right arm and rested it upon the washstand, giving Aelia better access to the laceration in his side, as well as a better view of his brawny chest and shoulder. Aelia had no doubt that the visual display was meant to intimidate her.

She glanced at the wound, then at the needle in her hand. The gash needed five stitches to hold it closed.

She knew how to make it ten. There was more than one way to kill a Norman and she would discover it before the evening was out.

Chapter Six

M athieu made a fist with his left hand and pressed his other against his thigh when Aelia pushed the needle through his skin. He concentrated on her mouth while she worked, on those soft, pink lips that had responded so intensely to his kiss.

He’d managed to avoid thinking about it until now, and he knew it would be in his best interests to concentrate on something else.

But she was so close he could see the faint freckles on the bridge of her nose, and the fine line of a tiny scar that fanned out from the corner of her eye. He could feel her warm breath and see the pebbling of her breasts against the soft wool of her tunic.

He sucked in a breath.

“Brace yourself, Norman,” she said, unaware that he’d barely noticed her needlework. She leaned closer, and several loose tendrils of her hair brushed against his chest. “I’m not yet finished.”

Mathieu gritted his teeth. ’Twould be so easy to kiss her again, to draw her to her feet and lead her to the bed, where he would lay her on her back and make her forget he was her enemy.

But he knew ’twas better to concentrate on the needle passing through his skin. Bedding Lady Aelia would be the worst possible course he could take. The situation was already far too complicated.

“Enough, woman!”

He pushed Aelia aside and stood. “I am no altar cloth on which to ply your needle.”

Shouts outside the window caught Mathieu’s attention and he crossed the room to see what the commotion was about. “God’s breath! The grain storehouse is on fire!” ’Twas where the prisoners were held. He threw the tunic over his head, then grabbed his sword. Taking Aelia by the hand, he ran from the room.

“To the storehouse!” he called to the guard as he passed.

“Osric!” Aelia cried as they flew down the steps. “My brother is in that building!”

“And you will be staying here, in the hall, with Sir Gilbert and the wounded men while I get him out.” Mathieu knew she would resist him, but he had no intention of allowing her to join the chaos outside. All his men would be needed to put out the fire and collect the prisoners. There would be no time to deal with whatever trouble Lady Aelia could accomplish.

As he fastened his sword belt, he backed her up to a chair against the wall and watched her fall into it. Her cheeks were flushed with color and each breath seethed with outrage.

“I’m going out there,” she cried. She tried to get up from the chair, but he stood before her, his knees to hers. She tried to push her way free, but Mathieu trapped her in place, leaning over her and placing a hand on each arm of the chair.

He leaned close. “Demoiselle, you will stay here, and give Gilbert no trouble. I will find your brother and assure his safety.”

“No! You can’t leave me here!”

Mathieu straightened and Aelia tried again to slip out of the chair. “Aye, I can.” He pushed her back where he wanted her. “Gilbert! Tie Lady Aelia in place and see that she does not leave the hall.”

A moment later, he clipped down the steps and raced toward the storehouse.

Ingelwald’s hall had never looked like this, Aelia thought as she entered the room.

The huge oaken table that had dominated the large chamber was gone, as were most of the chairs. In their place, ten or twelve injured men lay upon pallets on the floor, moaning or sleeping, as was their wont. Aelia did not take time to notice anything more, but bolted for the door, having easily eluded Sir Gilbert. The hapless Norman came after her, but became distracted when one of the injured men started to retch. She took advantage of the diversion and beat the herald to the door.

Thick smoke filled the yard and choked Aelia the moment she went outside. Undeterred, she headed toward the source of the smoke, the storehouse where Osric and the men of the fyrd were being held. There was already a line of men, women and children passing water-filled buckets toward the stable, which stood beside the grain storehouse, and carrying the emptied ones back to the well. Normans as well as Saxons worked to prevent the fire from spreading, but it seemed to be gaining in strength rather than waning. The heat from the flames was stifling.

’Twas a terrifying sight.

The fire had taken hold of the stable roof, and men were leading horses out to safety. They’d already given up on the storehouse beside it, the place where Osric had been held.

Aelia ran to the front of the water line, where a number of Saxon men lay covered with dirt and ash, coughing and trying to catch their breath. A Norman warrior caught an empty bucket from the roof and handed it back down the line.

“Did everyone get out of the storehouse?”

“Who’s to know?” he replied. “At least some of them got out, but we don’t know if there are any more in there.”

“What about a young boy—a small, red-haired boy?”

The Norman took the next bucket and handed it up to a man on the stable roof. Aelia grabbed his arm. “The boy! Did you see a small boy come out of the storehouse?”

“No. Move aside or help, lady. There is no room here for bystanders.”

Aelia’s heart lodged in her throat. If Osric was still inside the storehouse, he would burn to death.

She heard Fitz Autier shouting orders, and looked up toward the sound of his voice. He had shed his tunic and stood on the stable roof, pouring water from the buckets that were handed up to him.

Aelia ducked away before he could take notice of her, and picked up a discarded rag from the ground. Covering her head and mouth with it, she whispered a silent prayer and ran into the burning storehouse.

She didn’t think she’d ever felt anything hotter than the flames outside. But within the storehouse, ’twas worse. Her throat burned and her eyes watered as she searched the smoke-filled spaces for anyone who might still be inside, but she could see no one. Nor were there any bodies.

“Osric!”

Since ’twas summer’s end, the storehouse was nearly empty, but piles of burning debris obstructed Aelia’s progress through the building. She pressed the rag against her mouth and nose, but soon began to have difficulty catching her breath. A fiery beam cracked and fell in her path, and she tripped.

“Osric!” Her voice was a mere rasp now, and she did not know if he would hear her. She had to move on. If he was still inside the building, he could very well be unconscious.

She heard a groan nearby, and pushed herself up. “Where are you?” she called out.

“Here!” ’Twas not Osric, but an older man called Leof, who had once been a warrior in her father’s fyrd.

Aelia crawled to the man and helped him to a sitting position. “Have you seen Osric?”

“No, my lady.”

Aelia swallowed her frustration and spoke quickly. “You must get out of here!”

“I cannot walk. My leg—it’s broken!”

The fire roared around them. Finding Osric was hopeless now, and Aelia knew she would be lucky to get herself and Leof out of the storehouse.

“I’ll help you up. Lean on me!”

Another beam crashed to the floor nearby, and Aelia knew the roof was likely to fall in at any moment. Somehow, she managed to get Leof to his feet. She pulled his arm ’round her shoulders and held on to him, supporting his weight as he limped back in the direction of the door.

But Aelia could barely see where she was leading him.

“I cannot breathe,” Leof rasped.

“Keep moving!”

Aelia heard a man’s voice call her name, and wondered if it was her imagination. Another crash behind them spurred her on. “Come, Leof—not much farther!”

“Aelia!”

Fitz Autier’s face came into view. He wasted no time, but knelt before Leof and pulled the man into an awkward embrace. When the Norman stood again, Leof lay draped over his shoulder and he was moving away from her. “Let’s go!”

She blinked smoke from her eyes and followed in his wake, grateful for his assistance and trusting that he knew the way out. Yet she despaired Osric’s loss. The building was about to collapse and Aelia knew she could not go back. The heat was unbearable as it was.

And Osric was likely already dead.

Aelia choked on a sob and blindly followed Fitz Autier out of the storehouse. She was torn, desperate for air and cooler temperatures, but horrified by her inability to save her brother. She felt light-headed and ill, struggling for every breath.

“Move, Aelia! I cannot carry both of you!”

Aelia bristled. Fitz Autier would never have to carry her. She hurried alongside him, ducking the falling embers and skirting the debris on the ground.