The Mercenary's Bride

‘Tell me what you seek, sweetling,’ he whispered in English words flavoured with his exotic foreign accent, ‘and I will try to oblige you in any way I can.’

Chapter Two

Though the circumstances and sometimes miserable history of his existence as a bastard among noble-born should have taught him the lesson, Brice Fitzwilliam had never learned the one about patience being a virtue. It had always seemed overrated and a necessary nuisance, and this situation simply confirmed his opinion about it.

After being patient as the king required, and waiting while the winter passed for his letters granting him the lands and titles of Baron and Lord of Thaxted to arrive, he’d made his way here only to find the keep firmly closed against him. Three weeks of waiting for reinforcements from his friend Giles’s forces to arrive found him no closer to conquering the keep or the people inside. Now, after capturing a few escaping peasants, he discovered that his bride, who’d run away on several other occasions, had also just escaped under his watch—and that she sought refuge away from his control in a convent. Luckily Stephen le Chasseur accompanied him and nothing and no one escaped him when he set out to hunt.

Though she squirmed in his arms, Brice knew she had no idea of his identity or that she was his. His anger grew for her blithe ignorance of the dangers on the road. If he had not found her, the thought of what could have befallen her terrified him for many reasons. She needed to be taught a lesson and he would be the one to do it.

At least she was alive for him to make her consider her actions.

‘So, what is your price for the night, mistress?’ he asked, sliding his hand across her body and feeling her shudder beneath his caress. ‘Many of my men have saved up their coins or trinkets and could make it worth your while to stay with us.’

‘I am not a wh-wh …’ she stuttered. ‘I do not sell my favours.’

Brice released her and spun her to face him, nearly losing his wits along with it, for he finally got his first clear look at his bride. She was a beauty and she belonged to him.

Wide, luminous eyes, a colour between blue and green, shimmered from a heart-shaped face. Long, dark brown curls escaped from under her veil and tumbled over her shoulders. Though she was dressed in the loose Saxon style, he could see that her body was wonderfully curved and fell into the feminine shape he desired in his lovers—full soft breasts and hips. From the strength of her resistance, he knew that her legs and arms were strong.

His body reacted before his perusal was complete, that part of him flaring to life and readying him for all the things he’d shamelessly threatened her with. Only when one of his men coughed loudly did he speak.

‘If not a whore, then what?’

‘I told these men that my lady sent me to seek the convent and I am on my way there now.’

‘Alone, mistress? When marauders and outlaws of all types roam the woods and control roads here? Surely your lady would have sent along guards to keep you safe?’ he asked, stepping closer again.

She backed up, but his men did not and she remained trapped between them. He recognised the growing fear in her gaze and knew her brave front was in danger of crumbling. Then, as he watched, she pulled her confidence together, squared her shoulders and stuck out her chin at him.

‘My lady has other things to worry over, sir. She knows that I am self-reliant and could make my own way to the convent.’

Self-reliant? Too much so, for here she was, miles from safety, alone and not for the first time. Foolhardy was more accurate a description, was what he thought right now.

‘Foolish?’ he asked. ‘Seeking trouble?’ He let his gaze follow the curves of her body and did not hide his appreciation then. ‘Surely, any lady who sends her servant out onto these roads during these … dangerous … times understands the message she is sending.’

Brice could almost hear her trying to swallow her fear. Her eyes shimmered with a hint of tears and her lip, the full lower one that tempted him so much, trembled then. Ah, mayhap she was finally realising the foolishness of her plan?

‘A nobleman would honour a lady’s promise to her maid and grant her safe passage to the convent. A true nobleman would not take advantage of a woman without protection. A true nobleman would—’ She began to list another trait, but he stopped her with a shake of his head.

‘I never claimed to be a nobleman, mistress,’ he whispered as the anger grew from deep within him. ‘If your lady believes that noblemen are to be trusted and would pass up such a temptation as the one you present here, she is more foolish than I first thought.’

His men laughed then, knowing that neither he nor they were of noble or even legitimate birth, and he recognised the confusion in her expression. Most men would have been flattered by her, but not these who had made their way in the world by the work of their labours and the sweat of their bodies.

Lady Gillian looked as though she wanted to argue, but had not the words to do it, so she lowered her head and turned away. His attempts to humiliate her did not give him the satisfaction he’d hoped. Glancing at his men, he knew that nightfall was coming and there were many things that needed to be done now that his bride had walked into his possession.

‘Take her to my tent and make sure she stays there,’ he ordered.

‘You cannot!’ she cried out. He stepped closer, forcing her to look up to see his face. ‘The good sisters—’

‘The good sisters will eat their meal, offer their prayers and seek their beds as they do each night, mistress. Your lady should have thought out her plan before launching it.’

She pushed against him. ‘They are expecting me. My lady sent them a message to expect me.’

‘I can assure you that no message arrived at the convent. We have been camped here for the last several weeks and no one from Thaxted has crossed our path … until you did this day.’

Her confidence did crumble then and he felt the fight go out of her. She glanced around the camp and for the first time seemed to realise their number and the dangers they presented to her. If there had been a messenger, Brice’s men had not seen him. There was every possibility that such a messenger would have fled in the other direction if he’d spied their camp and knew he could not get through. Apparently, that messenger did not report his failure to his lady.

‘Take her,’ he repeated softly and he stepped aside so that Stephen could carry out his order.

The lady looked as though she would offer resistance, but she simply nodded and walked off with his men. At least, praise God, she was safe now and it was one less thing he needed to worry over in this volatile situation. By morning she would be his, as would Thaxted Manor and all the lands entailed to it and to him as Lord of Thaxted.

And with the support of Giles’s men from Taerford and some of the king’s forces, Brice would take over the keep, expel the rebels and those who would not pledge to King William, and begin his life as one of the high and mighty instead of remaining a low-born soldier. Taking in a deep breath and exhaling it, Brice knew he looked forwards to much of what yet faced him in the challenging days ahead.

Facing the lady’s fury at his deception was not one of those things.

Hours passed as he saw to preparations for his final assault against the keep as well as more personal ones involving the Lady Gillian. He sent word to the convent to let them know that she was safe and would be returning to her home in due course. A generous donation accompanied the message, smoothing, he hoped, the way that future dealings with the holy sisters would go. He’d watched as many others made the mistake of not respecting the clergy and he was determined not to fall into that error himself.

Finally, several hours after the sun dropped into the west and when night was full upon them, he decided it was time to take the first step towards taking control of his lands … and his wife. Calling out to those closest to him, he walked to his tent. Four men stood guard there, one at each corner, and none looked happy.

‘Problems, Ansel?’ he asked as he approached. All seemed quiet, but their expressions and the very number of them said otherwise. Though this was Ansel’s first battle campaign, he trusted the young man to carry out whatever task he so ordered.

‘Aye,’ Ansel answered in their dialect. ‘She is … the lady is … determined.’ He shook his head as though he had failed and Brice noticed the beginnings of a bruise on the man’s chin.

Brice took hold of the flap of the tent and paused. ‘So long as no harm came to her, I do not question your actions.’

Ansel nodded, but there was still a problem that Brice could not identify. Then Stephen approached.

‘She nearly escaped three times, Brice,’ he explained. ‘Once she got as far as the south perimeter of the camp without being seen.’ Brice glanced at each of the men guarding the tent, seeing then that several sported new scratches or bruises, and then back at Stephen, who let out a breath and shrugged. ‘Blame this on me if you must, but it was the only way to secure her.’

Brice winced at both the words and tone and wondered how they had done it. He nodded to them. ‘Bring something for the lady to eat and then seek out your meal. We will proceed once she’s eaten.’

The men walked away and Brice lifted the tent flap to one side so he could enter. Bending down to avoid knocking into the top of the tent, he stepped inside and stopped. In spite of only one lantern lighting the darkness, he could see her clearly and his mouth dropped open even as he hardened at the sight before him.

The men had driven big wooden stakes into the ground and tied her to them, wrists and ankles bound together and then to the posts. Her head covering gathered around her neck and a gag sealed her mouth. From her struggles against the bindings, her gown twisted high on her legs, exposing their shapeliness to his gaze. Due to the position of her arms and the shifting of the top of her gown, her breasts thrust against the material, their tightened peaks visible through the soft gown.

Brice swallowed, and then again, his mouth suddenly dry. He stepped farther into the tent and dropped the flap behind him. She began to struggle anew as he approached and her efforts caused her gown to shift more, gifting him with a clear view of her thighs and her hips as she turned and tried to pull away. He found himself clenching and releasing his fists as they ached to slide up the expanse of white, soft skin and cup her bottom. Heat pulsed through him then and he thought of all the places he would caress and kiss before the morn.

She mumbled something against the cloth in her mouth and he realised he could not leave her so. Crouching down beside her, he took out his dagger and slit the side of the gag. ‘Easy now, mistress,’ he soothed. With a gentle touch, he smoothed her hair from her face and wiped her cheeks.

Tears. She’d been crying. From what little he’d learned of his betrothed, he knew that this sign of weakness would humiliate her and he had little stomach for that now. He went to the small table and poured some wine from the jug into a metal cup and brought it to her.

‘Here now, drink this.’ He lifted her head and helped her sip until she drank the small amount of wine. After she’d finished, he filled the cup once more and drank it down quickly.

Kneeling at her side, he began to straighten her gown. But when his hand touched her ankle, he could not stop himself from enjoying just a small touch. He slid his hand up to her knee before grasping the hem of the gown. His body urged him to push it higher, to slide up her thigh and between her legs to that place that he could make weep at his caress. Brice fought the desire to explore her body and only her soft words brought him to his senses.

‘I pray thee, my lord. Please do not …’ she whispered.

She did not move at all, and it was a good thing, for the battle of doing the right thing or following his body’s urgings was a near one just then. After a moment that lingered too long, he tugged the length of the gown down to cover her legs and backed away.

The awkwardness between them was broken when Ansel called to him from outside. Brice turned and stepped out, coming back in with a wooden plate for the lady. He placed it on the table and took his dagger once more, sliding it carefully into the knot around her wrists. She gasped as he twisted it, most likely more surprised than anything else, for he took great care not to nick her skin in doing so. It was only when he held out his hand to her that he realised he was still in his hauberk of chainmail and wore his thick leather gloves.

Regardless of the soft look in his gaze at this moment, Gillian did not trust him. Oh, his men had not hurt her yet, but being tied up and gagged and then left for hours on end had tested her patience and courage. Though a virgin, she’d recognised the lust in this man’s gaze when he touched her leg and looked at the way her gown had shifted to expose places better left covered. How long she would remain untouched or unused she did not know and dared not ask.

Still, if she was untied, there was a better chance of escape than if she remained trussed like a goose. Gillian accepted his hand and let him pull her up to sit. When she reached for the ropes that bound her legs together and to the other spike, he stopped her.

‘Leave them,’ he said gruffly, the deep voice and accented words affecting her more than she wished they would. She pulled the edges of her gown as far over her feet as she could and tugged the laces at her neckline tighter, too.

He reached over and dipped a linen square in a bucket by the tent’s entrance and then handed it to her to use. Wiping it over her face and neck, she removed the dirt from her struggles and the tears that she’d shed against all of her attempts not to cry. Then, she cleaned her hands and held the cloth out to him. ‘Merci,’ she whispered, using one of the few words in his tongue she knew.

He started as she said it, and she realised her error. A poor English maid would not know his French. A poor English woman would know only her English words … or Saxon or Danish ones, but not French. When he replied in his own language, she blinked and shook her head as though she knew none of it. Truly, she could follow most of it when he spoke slowly, but she did not want him or his men to know that. Better to gain what information she could while here and share it with her brother when she got back to Thaxted Keep.

If she returned to her brother.

Gillian shivered then as she realised she might not survive the coming night. After all, these men did not believe her story and thought her a prostitute. If made to … service them … against her will, she might not even be alive in the morn to try to escape once more. Her body shuddered then, from her head down to her now shoeless feet.

The knight reacted quickly but in an unexpected way, for he called out to the other one, Stephen, and demanded something. Robe? Cloak? Soon, her missing cloak and shoes were handed into the tent. He shook out her cloak and draped it over her shoulders. She grabbed it and pulled it tight around her, taking what protection it could offer her. Soon, after hours spent on the cold ground with little protection from it, her body began to warm under the thick layer of wool. Then, his gentle touch in placing her shoes back on her feet surprised her again. His men had taken them the last time she’d got past them, knowing that she could not go far on the cold ground without them.

When he held the plate in front of her, her stomach growled loudly, giving her no chance to refuse his offer. She took the food—some cooked fowl, a chunk of cheese and another of bread—and ate it. No matter what challenges faced her, she needed to be at her strongest and she continued to tear apart the roasted hen and break apart the cheese and bread until every bit of it was gone. Gillian looked up to find him watching her every move. When he filled a cup for her, she drank it down.

Knowing that this was simply a respite before whatever else he’d planned for her, she knew she should have slowed down and taken her time, but an empty stomach and all the exertions of the day proved her match.

She had barely finished the food and drink when she heard movement outside the tent and the sound of many voices growing closer. Had her brother discovered her missing and followed? Did he now attack to recover her? When the soldier took the plate from her, she gave up all pretence and began to work the ropes around her ankles. Either he ignored her or did not think she could do it, for he left the tent then and she increased her efforts.

If only she had a dagger or her small knife, or something sharp to loosen the knot or cut the ropes! Gillian continued until she heard the words spoken by Stephen to her captor.

‘The men are ready.’

Her mind emptied of all thought then and the only thing she could do was struggle against the ropes. Pulling on one, then another, she shook as the thought of what lay ahead pierced her. They would take their pleasure of her now. All of them? Saints in heaven, protect her!

Fighting off the panic that assailed her, Gillian knew she must be in control and seek out a moment when she could escape. To do that, she must be alive. Taking several deep breaths and trying to let out the terror that threatened to control her, she knew what she must do. When the leader entered the tent and approached her, she knew the only way to live through this was through him.

He’d removed his chainmail hauberk and wore only a thick, quilted tunic in its place. His leather gloves were gone, as well. Instead of easing her fears, for she knew that men could tup women in armour or out of it, it increased them for he looked no less the dangerous warrior than before in his battle dress. He crouched near her once more and used his deadly dagger on the ropes until they gave way. Helping her to her feet, he wrapped an arm around her waist when she began to stumble.

‘My lord,’ she whispered, turning to face him. He did not release her; nay, if truth be told he held her more closely than before. ‘I would … see to your needs willingly if you promised not to share me with the others.’

Shocked that she could speak such damning words aloud, she knew she must seem honest in her intentions or all was lost. Gillian reached up and clutched the neckline of his tunic as she promised anything to keep herself alive. ‘I wish to warm your bed only, my lord.’

The warrior released her so quickly she nearly fell to the ground. She’d angered him in some way, not pacified him with her promise of pleasure. He grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her to the entrance of the tent.

‘Nay, my lord,’ she cried out, both in pain from his tight grasp and in fear of being given to the others. ‘I beg you not to share me with your men!’

In but a few moments, she stood outside the tent, in front of what seemed to be hundreds of men. Though night-time, the full moon’s light alone would have made it possible to see their numbers, but the burning torches spread around the camp made it seem like day. He held her wrist in his iron grasp and pulled her to face him.

‘Oui, my Lady Gillian, you will warm my bed this night,’ he growled through clenched teeth. He knew! He knew who she was! Before she could explain, he tugged her closer until only she could hear his words. ‘And I will share my wife with no other man.’

Chapter Three

Gillian searched his face for answers she did not find. He was angry, aye, for it poured off him in waves. She understood now that he’d known her identity the whole while, even as she dissembled and lied. How?

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

Her brother had told her of the usurper’s nobleman on his way to claim their lands as well as herself, but this man who stood before her swore he was not noble. She’d heard his common cursing and seen the way the others called him by name—Brice—and not with the respect due a lord of the realm, even that of the Norman pigs who now infested their lands.

‘Brice Fitzwilliam, newly named Lord of Thaxted and baron to his Highness Duke William of Normandy and King of England,’ he said loud enough for all his men to hear. ‘And your husband,’ he said as he offered a slight bow to her.

Their answering cheers shook the night and terrified her. This was the man who would tear her world apart, kill her brother, take her lands and people and conquer her as surely as his bastard duke had ravaged the south of England already.

Fitzwilliam? He was a bastard himself. Now she understood his anger, for her earlier words about noblemen were an insult to his new honour.

‘You are not my husband,’ she said, refusing to believe that such a thing could be accomplished without her participation or consent.

He laughed then, surprising her and showing a different side to him from what she’d witnessed thus far. His eyes gleamed in merriment and the way his mouth curved into a smile made her body fill with heat. When he turned that smile in her direction, she lost her breath.

‘But that can be managed so easily, my lady,’ he said, motioning to someone across the clearing. ‘At your command.’

An old man, a priest, came forwards from the crowd, followed by a younger man not in priestly garb, but who carried a number of parchments. They stopped in front of her and bowed.

‘Lady Gillian,’ the older man said respectfully. ‘I am Father Henry, late of Taerford.’ Turning to the Norman warrior, he spoke softly. ‘My lord, Selwyn will read out the marriage contract and disposition of properties and titles.’

So shocked was she by this turn of events, she had not noticed when his tight grasp had loosened or when his hand had clasped hers or when their fingers had entwined. She’d gone from prisoner to betrothed wife in moments and could not comprehend the change. As the young man Selwyn read out the honours and lands bestowed on this Lord Brice Fitzwilliam, who was from Brittany, not Normandy, she tried to think of a way out. A way back to Thaxted Keep; to her brother’s protection; to her life as she knew it just months ago.

Instead, she stood with a complete stranger, a foreign knight raised high by his king, a man who would—if she consented—control her lands, her people, her person and body as his own. Gillian knew she must do something, but as she began to pull from his grasp, he whispered the words to her that would chill her blood and ensure her co-operation.

‘Honoured wife or exiled peasant. Which do you wish to be this night, Gillian?’

His gaze showed neither gloating nor persuasion when she met it and she knew he would make certain that her choice became the reality of her life. Selwyn finished reading out the contract approved by his king and all eyes watched as she hesitated.

Something deep inside urged her to be brave and denounce this enemy, fight off his attempts to take her against her will and defy her brother’s intentions. Surely the priest would not stand by while she was forced into this marriage or while his men ravaged her.

Another part of her wanted to stand up and do whatever she could, put up with what she must in order to protect the people who lived on their lands against this conqueror. The noble blood in her veins, though tainted by the circumstances of her birth, ran back countless generations through her father and it strengthened her resolve not to stand by while her people were made to suffer more. If marriage to this warrior would bring peace to their land, then she would endure it.