Margo Maguire (9 page)

She backed away, shaking her head to clear it. Her mother had to have been mistaken about the odd feelings engendered by the sight of him. Fitz Autier could not possibly be her one true mate—not even if his touch made her heart flutter and her bones turn to ash.

With overwhelming sadness, Aelia turned away. She started to run, but someone came at her from behind and shoved her down. She landed hard, and before she could make a sound, her Saxon attacker drew his ax and swung.

Aelia screamed and rolled to the side to escape the blow, then quickly pushed herself up to her feet and ran. ’Twas not her fate to be hewn this way—by a man who was likely once an ally of her father.

“Now you die, Norman whore!”

The words cut her to the bone and she stumbled, with the Saxon right behind her. This was not the time for tears. She had to keep her wits about her or she surely
would
die. In a desperate attempt to keep her balance, Aelia scrambled up and ran ahead, but the Saxon fell upon her and shoved her to the ground. Dropping his ax, he grabbed her hair, yanked her head back, placed the cold steel of a knife blade against her throat.

Aelia held her breath and stayed perfectly still, even when he muttered another insulting remark about her. Telling him that she was also Saxon would do no good. The man would only see her as a traitor.

She felt the burn of the sharp edge and the trickle of blood down her neck. But before she could react, the Saxon let go, dropping her to the ground.

“Aelia!”

On hands and knees, she scurried away, but Fitz Autier’s enraged voice, and the clash of swords, caused her to turn. Too shaken to do more than press one hand against the cut on her neck, she drew her legs up to her chest and wrapped one arm ’round them. She took a shuddering breath when the Norman baron finished off the man who would have killed her.

Fitz Autier gave her no time to recover, but took her hand and pulled her to her feet. With one finger under her chin, he tipped her head back and looked at the wound. “’Tis not deep.”

Aelia could not speak, and it galled her to stand trembling before the Norman.

“Hold still,” he said, gripping her torn sleeve and ripping it the rest of the way off her tunic. He slid it down her arm and folded the cloth, then pressed it against the wound in her neck.

Aelia wished he would not be so kind. She wanted her hatred for him to be a clear, pure thing, uncomplicated by any demonstration of compassion or benevolence.

At the same time, she wished he would hold her until the trembling stopped.

“Let’s go.” A moment later, she found herself being lifted and tossed upon his horse, with Fitz Autier mounting behind her.

“I can ride,” she said, though her voice sounded thick and unsteady to her own ears.

“Not this time.”

“I have seen battle, seignior. I have never…”

“I know,
demoiselle.
I will forever bear the scar of your arrow upon my face.” He shifted in the saddle, then draped something warm about her shoulders. ’Twas the mantle she’d worn earlier, and she was grateful for its heat.

“You…saved my life,” she said. She would have to thank him for that, at least.

“Think naught of it. ’Twas no more than what I’d have done for anyone under my protection.”

“You drew the Saxons away from your men,” she said. “You warned them with your horn.”

“’Tis a useful weapon.”

“Your horn? ’Tis not a weapon at all.”

He pulled her close. Aelia did not understand his reason for making such a comforting gesture, but since his hauberk was surprisingly warm, and Aelia felt chilled to the bone, she did not complain. “You do not believe the horn was an effective weapon? It drew the Saxons away from my men, did it not?”

“But swords are weapons. Axes, knives… Aye. Your horn diverted the Saxons from their prey. I concede.”

The voices of Normans and Saxons fell behind them as Fitz Autier guided the gelding out of the forest and onto the valley path. “You’re leaving the battle?” she asked.

“I’ve seen enough of killing. Raoul will prevail and take prisoner any Saxon who yields.”

Aelia felt her throat thicken. More of her people would be enslaved, and she could do naught to help them. “What will you do with them?”

“There is room at Ingelwald, is there not?”

“For more Saxons who hate you?” Aelia could have bitten her tongue for those cutting words to the man who had just saved her life, but they were out, and their truth could not be denied.

But Fitz Autier just gave a laugh that sounded more bitter than mirthful, and rode on.

The woman needed some clothes. What she wore was torn and stained, and misshapen after her swim be
hind the waterfall. Not that Mathieu did not appreciate that she’d kept her clothes on. In hindsight, ’twas best that one obstacle had remained between them.

Men and women were at work inside Ingelwald’s walls when he and Aelia arrived. The rubble of the burned storehouse was gone, and the stable roof had been repaired. Normans and Saxons collected debris and swept it away from the paths while the scarred knight spoke with a Saxon shopkeeper. When he saw Mathieu, he turned and approached.

“Speaking the Saxon tongue now, Auvrai?”

The knight shrugged. “What happened to you?”

Mathieu told him about the attack as he dismounted and assisted Aelia from his saddle. He should send her away with one of the guards to the enclosure where the rest of the Saxon prisoners were held.

But he was not ready to part with her.

“The lady could use some of your salve, Auvrai.” He reached for her shoes and his mantle, and took them from the saddle.

“And what of you? I’ve yet to see that wound in your side.”

“It looked clean this afternoon.”

Auvrai shrugged again. “You’ll find the salve in my pack, with Gilbert in the hall.” He’d never been one for questions beyond the essential, but he was as loyal as any man could be, and had matters well in hand here.

Aelia did not wait for Mathieu, but walked toward the hall, as though she were still daughter of the lord, even though she was dressed like the most pitiful pauper in the realm.

Mathieu followed her. She did not look back but went to the stairs and climbed. He picked up the leather bag that held Auvrai’s salves and bandages, and went
up after her. He climbed all the way to the master’s chamber, but Aelia was not there.

Mathieu should have known she would not retreat to the room he’d taken as his own. The place she would seek refuge would be her own chamber—the one that had belonged to her before he’d had it stripped. The room was barren of all her belongings, of all comforts other than a plain, straw mattress. Yet she’d gone to the place where she’d likely spent many a carefree hour, he discovered when he went there.

She stood at the window, looking out. Her arms rested at her sides, one of them bare, the other covered by a puckered woolen sleeve. Her hair had come loose from the thick plait that bound it, yet Mathieu could easily imagine how she would look dressed in her Saxon finery, with her hair shining and flowing loose to her hips.

Was she remembering the better times when she was the lady of Ingelwald?

“I want to see my brother,” she said without turning.

Mathieu dropped her shoes to the floor. “No.”

She turned then. Though she tried to keep her expression neutral, she could not hide the fury in her eyes. “My cooperation ensures Osric’s well-being, does it not?”

He ran one hand across his face. “To some extent,
demoiselle.
But his own behavior also helps to determine how he is treated.”

She came to him in two steps, placing her hand upon his arm. “He is just a child! He cannot be held responsible—”

“He is without discipline.”

“But he’s a good lad.”

Mathieu found Auvrai’s salve in a small pouch
within the satchel. He untied the string that held a thin hide over its top, and uncovered it. Taking Aelia’s chin between his thumb and finger, he raised it to gain access to the cut in her neck.

She would not look at him, but kept her eyes downcast. Mathieu could not help but notice the thick crescent of russet lashes that shadowed her cheeks. The pulse in her throat raced, and he could imagine how it would feel against his lips.

He cleared his throat and ignored the delicate curve of her neck. He would not think of how close she’d come to losing her life. “Turn toward the light.”

She did, and he smeared the musty-smelling ointment on the wound. When he stopped, she backed away.

He caught her hand. “I’m not finished.”

She took an unsteady breath and waited for him to wrap a length of white linen ’round her throat, then remained still as he examined the scrape on her shoulder.

“The salve will do some good, but it will rub off on your clothes.”

“That does not seem to be a problem, seignior,” she said with a pointed glance at the tear in her tunic that left her shoulder and arm bare.

“I’ll have someone find you some clothes.”

“Do not trouble yourself,” she said, and this time, walked away from him. She bent down to pick up her shoes. “What would a slave need with decent clothing?”

“You are not a slave.”

“A prisoner, then. Tell me, Fitz Autier, what will you do with us—with Osric and me?”

If she’d intended to neutralize the intimate moment between them, she succeeded.

“I have orders to take you to the king in London.”

A
elia would not go to London. The thought of facing that murderous Norman, William, was more than she could stomach. She was not afraid of the man, but she could not deny that Fitz Autier’s orders unnerved her. What could the bastard king possibly want with her?

Ingelwald was her place. She was needed here in the aftermath of so many battles and such devastation. The people had always looked to her father and his men for direction, and there were many who owed work or rents. Now that Wallis was gone, ’twas up to Aelia to take charge of the holding. There were hundreds of acres under cultivation, and huge numbers of livestock, with pounds of grain and weights of meat owed to her bondsmen, food that would sustain them throughout the year. ’Twould soon be time for harvest, and Aelia had yet to miss one.

She lay back upon the lumpy straw mattress in her room and tried to find a comfortable position. How could she refuse to go with Fitz Autier? She had no power, no say in what happened to her. In that, she was no better than the lowest slave.

At least she’d been given one day’s reprieve. Fitz Autier had not been able to leave Ingelwald as soon as he wanted. Too many of his men had been injured in the skirmish with the renegade Saxons, and now there were even more prisoners to deal with.

She spent a restless night locked in her own chamber, and was awakened from an uneasy slumber by a knock at her door. ’Twas Rowena, one of the housemaids. She was much younger than Aelia, a very pretty girl who’d garnered much attention from Ingelwald’s young swains. She carried a bundle of cloth in her arms and spoke perfunctorily, her voice expressionless. “The Norman sent me with this.”

Aelia took the parcel, taking note of the girl’s pallor and the dark circles under her eyes. “Are you unwell, Rowena?”

The girl bit down on her lip and shook her head, cowering before the Norman guard who stood beside the door, watching their every move.

“Then what is it? What are you—”

“’Tis naught, my lady. I’ll not speak of it.”

Aelia frowned, taking note of a red scrape upon her neck—no, ’twas a bite mark! “You were assaulted. One of these bastards…did he rape you?”

Rowena trembled and tears streamed down her face. Aelia tried to draw her inside the room, but the Norman guard interfered.

“Move, you Norman oaf! I will speak to her here. In private!” Aelia shoved herself between Rowena and the guard, eased the girl into the chamber, then shut the door.

“I am so sorry, Rowena,” Aelia said as an unholy rage flared within her. Why couldn’t the man have chosen an older maid, one more experienced, and more will
ing? Nelda, perhaps, who was known to give herself freely. “Is there aught to be done for you?”

Aelia remembered the day her father had brought Rowena to work in the hall. The girl’s father had drowned and there’d been no other family to care for her.

“I may be with ch-child, my lady….” Her voice was tremulous.

“I’ll see the swine punished. Who is he?”

Rowena shook her head and wept. “You can do naught! ’Tis done now—”

“If there is a child, I’ll see that the bastard takes care of you both.”

“No! I wish never to lay eyes upon him again!”

“Tell me who it was.”

“A Norman! You know him…s-so big. Dark.” She pressed a hand to her cheek. “Scarred.”

Aelia’s anger grew to a seething, pulsing rage. She yanked open her chamber door and pushed past the guard as Rowena whimpered behind her. It took but a moment to climb the stairs to her father’s chamber, slip away from the guard once again and throw open the door.

“Fitz Autier!”

He was fastening his belt over a dark blue tunic.

“How dare you!”

He looked up at her. A crease formed between his brows and he spoke, but Aelia barely heard the guard’s apology to his baron, or Fitz Autier’s dismissal of him.

“How dare I what?”

“Rowena is still a child, barely thirteen years old!”

The crease grew deeper. “Rowena?”

“You know very well, seignior.” His dagger lay untended upon the end of the bed, beside his gauntlets.
Aelia’s hand darted out and grabbed it. She held it up in a threatening manner and hoped he would come after her for it. Godwin had taught her how to deal with a man of Fitz Autier’s size. Once he came toward her, she would quickly feint to the side, then slide her foot ’round his ankle to trip him.

When he fell, she would drop on top of him and mete out the punishment he deserved.

“Am I to understand that someone called Rowena has been wronged?” He did not move, other than to cross his arms over his chest. Fury made her heart pound and her breath come in short spurts. She tightened her grip on the knife and widened her stance. “You did not even know her name, did you?”

“How could I,
demoiselle?
”

“’Tis just like a Norman to take from another…to steal what is precious, without regard to—”

“Are we speaking of a woman?”

“A girl! An innocent child!”

Aelia lunged.

Fitz Autier moved so fast she missed him, and before she could strike at him, he took hold of her wrist and shook the knife free. It fell to the floor and he pulled her arm up behind her, shoving her facedown on the bed.

He dropped beside her, holding her in place. “Explain what this is about.”

“Get off me!”

“Talk!”

“’Tis pointless! You Normans would never admit to raping a young girl, unless ’twas to boast of it to your despicable companions.” She tried to push up, but could not oust him from his position.

“Rape?”

“Aye. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.” She spat out the
words, laden with sarcasm. “’Tis when a man without honor takes a woman against her will, holding her down and—”

He released her abruptly and stood back.

Aelia pushed herself off the bed and would have gone for the door if he’d not stood in her path.

“She accused me? This Rowena?”

“Who else is so tall and dark…and bears a scar on his cheek?”

His jaw clenched dangerously. “A number of us,
demoiselle.
We have seen many battles. Who among us is not scarred?”

“Do you deny it, then?” There was more bluster than threat in her tone, and they both knew it. His eyes, icy blue, pierced her, but she felt little fear of him. Could Rowena have been mistaken about her attacker—or had Aelia come to the wrong conclusion?

“There is only one woman at Ingelwald who is of interest to me,” Fitz Autier said, his voice low and ominous. “And the only reason her virtue remains intact is that I have no desire to force myself upon an unwilling woman.”

His meaning became clear, and Aelia found herself unable to speak. She watched his eyes peruse her body as if he were a starving man looking to break his fast. Her throat tightened and she stood still for an interminable interval, then fled the room.

Aelia escaped to her own chamber and stood with her back against the stout wooden door, listening to the pounding of her heart in her ears. The only reason she felt so agitated was because of Rowena. And now that she knew Fitz Autier was not the one who’d raped the girl, Aelia would make it her business to discover and punish the man who’d done it.

Fresh water had been left for her, as well as a comb and a short leather strip to bind her hair. She made quick use of both, then dressed in the soft linen under-kirtle and green bliaut that Rowena had brought. The linen bandage Fitz Autier had bound around her neck chafed her, but she left it in place in her haste to leave the chamber and find the maid.

There were pointed questions to ask about her attacker.

Expecting an argument from the guard at her door, Aelia was surprised when he allowed her to descend to the great hall. Sir Gilbert still tended the wounded, along with the tall, blond, one-eyed knight, but she noted with relief that Fitz Autier was not in sight.

Ingelwald hall boasted two kitchens, and Aelia hoped to find Rowena in one of them. The first was empty, so she went outside to the separate building where most of the baking was done, especially in summer. There in the bake house, she found Grendel and his mother. “I’m looking for Rowena.”

“She is not with you, my lady?” asked Elga. “I sent her to your chamber with the clothes given me by the Norman baron.”

Aelia shook her head. “No. I saw her a while ago, but…” But she’d run up the stairs to take Fitz Autier’s head off for something he had not done.

Still, he was responsible for the actions of his men. And if one of them had defiled Rowena, Aelia was going to see that he paid dearly for it.

“I’d hoped she would be safe with you after what—”

A piercing scream launched Aelia through the bake house door. ’Twas not the carefree shriek of a child at play, but that of a desperate woman.

Men and women came to the doors of their shops and cottages and looked out.

An old woman pointed to the chandler’s shop, and when another scream came from that direction, Aelia did not stop to think, but went straight for it.

Mathieu looked out the window and saw Aelia. Though she was speaking to her own people, her posture was that of a warrior poised for battle. She wore women’s clothes now, and her hair had been tamed into a soft cascade that teased her hips. But Mathieu knew her clothes would do naught to tame her temper.

She turned suddenly and ran, and Mathieu had no choice but to do the same.

Clearly, something was amiss, and the lady of Ingelwald intended to right it. He tore down the stairs and through the great hall, shoving his way out the main door. He heard Auvrai’s shout behind him, but kept moving toward the place where he’d seen Aelia.

When he reached the courtyard, he heard it, too—terrified screams mixed with the shouts of a furious woman. A loud crash drove Mathieu forward, toward the chandler’s shop.

’Twas deserted and there was little light inside, but Mathieu could smell the wax and discern shelves against two walls, filled with candles. Beyond three worktables, in the farthest corner of the room, he saw Aelia’s green-clad figure.

Mathieu closed in on her as she wielded a stout wooden joist. “You are a demon!” she cried, swinging the beam, resulting in a fierce grunt when the blow met its target—a man crouched upon the floor in the corner.

When the unlucky fellow sprawled to the ground, a
child scrambled out from beneath him, crying, barely able to catch her breath. Without taking her eyes from her prey, Aelia shouted English words at the girl, who stumbled toward the door, stopping short when she saw Mathieu. She was a comely maid, but little more than a child. Her split and bleeding lip and the terror in her eyes sickened him, bringing an unwelcome reminder of his own mother’s state after his
noble
father’s visits.

“Move, Norman, and I’ll spill your brains on the floor over the chandler’s wax,” Aelia said, taking Mathieu’s attention from the girl, who regained her wits and ran, terrified, from the shop.

“You will regret this, Saxon wench.” The man’s voice was low and gravelly. Mathieu knew it belonged to Durand the Black, the man who’d struck Aelia when he’d been assigned to guard her.

Mathieu stepped forward. “Aelia.”

“This animal raped Rowena,” she said. Her face was covered with tears, but Mathieu did not think she even realized it. “Is this the way of the Normans?”

Durand rose to his feet, moving to wrest the beam from Aelia. She swung it again, the timber coming down hard, but missing Durand’s arm.

Mathieu pushed past Aelia. Taking hold of Durand’s tunic, he plowed his fist into the man’s face, sending him to the floor in a slump. “Get yourself to the gates and help the carpenters there. And be ready to travel in the morning. You’re coming to London with me.”

The man got to his feet and skulked out of the shop, muttering under his breath.

Mathieu turned to Aelia and saw that her face was devoid of color except for the purple bruise on her cheekbone. And she was shaking. When her legs started
to give out, he caught her in his arms. “Take a deep breath,” he said.

She felt light and fragile when he lifted her, cradling her carefully as though she might break. Her face was still damp with tears.

Mathieu carried her to the chandler’s living quarters at the back of the shop. Taking a seat on a wooden chair near the hearth, he pressed Aelia against his chest and waited for the trembling to subside. He touched her hair, slid his hand down her shoulder and arm…wanted to kiss away her tears.

He swallowed. “The girl is safe. I’ll see that Durand goes nowhere near her again.”

She nodded, moving her head against his chest. “I accused you. W-wrongly.”

“Aye.” He tucked her head under his chin, holding her until the shuddering stopped and her heartbeat slowed to normal.

“If he goes near Rowena again, I will kill him,” she said in a whisper.

“I’ll see that he doesn’t.” Mathieu was going to leave Ingelwald at first light, with Durand among the men who accompanied him. Until that time, the errant knight would be kept hard at work or confined under guard. There would be no more trouble from him at Ingelwald.

But the journey to London would be another matter. Mathieu had already decided who was to accompany him, and the number of men was small. Aelia and Durand would be in close quarters for several days. Somehow Mathieu would have to keep them separate.

He had spent a difficult night dealing with the new Saxon prisoners and conferring with Auvrai, who would remain at Ingelwald to oversee the repair of all the damage done by months of warfare, as well as improve
ments on Wallis’s great hall. When Mathieu had finally gone to his bed, he’d had trouble sleeping as he considered every possible ploy to avoid taking Aelia to King William. But ’twas clear she could not remain behind. Besides his own ravening attraction to her, she was clearly well loved by her people. They would never accept Norman dominion as long as their Saxon lady maintained residence here.

But awareness of what William would do to her and her young brother curdled in Mathieu’s belly. To parade them before jeering crowds, humiliating them before their own people, as well as their Norman conquerors, would be beyond cruel.