Royce was methodical in his search. The first floor of the keep was cluttered with rubble. Litter covered the old rushes. The long table near the far corner had been overturned, and most of the stools had been destroyed.
The staircase leading to the chambers abovestairs was still intact, though just barely. The wooden steps were slippery with water dripping down from the walls. It was a dangerously narrow climb. Most of the banister had been torn away and dangled over the side, and if a man lost his footing, there was nothing to prevent him from falling.
The landing on the second level was just as pitiful. Wind howled through a gaping man-sized hole in the center of the far wall. The air was bitter from the cold winter wind blowing in from outside. A long, dark corridor led away from the head of the stairs.
As soon as Royce reached the landing, Ingelram rushed ahead of him and awkwardly drew his sword. The vassal obviously meant to protect his lord. The floorboards were just as wet and slippery as the steps, however. Ingelram lost both his sword and his balance and went flying toward the gaping hole.
Royce caught him by the nape of the neck and sent him flying in the opposite direction. The vassal landed with a thud against the inside wall, shook himself like a wet dog to rid himself of the shivers, then picked up his sword and went chasing after his lord again.
Royce shook his head in exasperation at his inept vassal's puny attempt to protect him. He didn't bother to draw his own sword as he started down the hallway. When he reached the first chamber and found the door barred against him, he simply kicked it open, ducked under the low lintel, and went inside.
The room was a bedchamber in which six candles were burning. It was unoccupied save for a serving girl who cowered in a corner.
"Who resides in this chamber?" Royce demanded.
"Mistress Nicholaa," came the whispered reply.
Royce took his time studying the room. He was mildly surprised at how Spartan and orderly the chamber was. He didn't realize women could live without a clutter of possessions surrounding them. His experience was limited to his three sisters, of course, but that was quite enough to allow him to draw such a conclusion. Still, Lady Nicholaa's room didn't have a bit of clutter. A large bed stood against one wall, its burgundy draperies tied back. The hearth was on the opposite wall. A single low-fashioned chest made of fine, burnish red wood stood in a corner.
There wasn't a single article of clothing hanging from the hooks to give Royce any idea of the woman's size. He turned to leave the chamber, but found his path blocked by his vassal. A glare quickly removed the obstacle.
The second door was also barred from inside. Royce was about to kick it out of his way when he heard the sound of the latch being removed.
The door was opened by a young serving girl. Freckles and fear covered her face. She tried to curtsy to him but only half completed the formal greeting when she got a true look at his face. She let out a cry and went running across the large chamber.
The room was alight with candles. A wooden altar covered with a white cloth stood in front of the hearth. On the floor in front of the altar were several leather-padded kneelers.
He saw the nun at once. She was kneeling, her head bowed in prayer, her hands folded below the cross she wore on a thin leather thong around her neck.
She was dressed in white, from the long veil covering her hair to her white shoes. Royce stood inside the doorway and waited for her to acknowledge him. Because there was no chalice on the altar, he didn't genuflect.
The serving girl timidly touched the nun's slender shoulder, bent down, and whispered in her ear. "Sister Danielle, the Norman leader has arrived. Do we surrender now?"
That question seemed so ridiculous that Royce almost smiled. He motioned to Ingelram to replace his sword, then walked farther into the room. Two servants stood together near the fur-covered window across the room. One held a baby in her arms. The infant was diligently chewing on his fists.
Royce's attention returned to the nun. He could only see her profile from his position. She finally made the sign of the cross, a signal her prayers were finished, then gracefully gained her feet. As soon as she stood up, the baby let out a lusty cry and reached out to her.
The nun motioned the dark-haired servant forward and took the baby into her arms. She kissed the top of his head and turned to walk toward Royce.
He still hadn't gotten a good look at her face because she kept her head bowed, but he found himself pleasantly affected by her gentle manners and her whisper-soft voice as she crooned to the baby. The infant's head was covered with a sprinkling of white-blond hair that literally stood up on end, giving him a comical look. The baby cuddled contentedly against the nun and continued to suckle on his fists. He made loud, slurping sounds, interrupted only by an occasional yawn.
Danielle stopped when she was just a foot or two away from Royce. The top of her head only reached his shoulders, and he was thinking to himself how very fragile and vulnerable she appeared to be.
Then she lifted her gaze and stared into his eyes, and he couldn't seem to think at all.
She was exquisite. God's truth, she had the face of an angel. Her skin was flawless. Her eyes fascinated him. They were the most appealing shade of blue. Royce imagined that he was looking at a goddess who'd come to earth just to tantalize him. Her light brown eyebrows were perfectly sculptured into soft arches, her nose was wonderfully straight, and her mouth was full, rosy, and damned appealing.
Royce found himself physically reacting to the woman and was immediately disgusted with himself. His sudden lack of discipline was appalling to him. The indrawn breath he heard told him Ingelram was experiencing the same reaction to the beautiful woman. Royce turned to glare at his vassal before looking at the nun again.
Danielle was a bride of the sacred church, for God's sake, and not booty to be lusted after. Like his overlord, William of Normandy, Royce honored the church and protected the clergy whenever possible.
He let out a long sigh. "Who does this child belong to?" he asked in an attempt to regain his unholy thoughts about the woman.
"The baby belongs to Clarise," she answered in a husky voice he found incredibly arousing. She motioned to the dark-haired servant in the shadows. The woman immediately took a step forward. "Clarise has been a faithful servant for many years. Her son's name is Ulric."
She looked down at the infant and saw that he was gnawing on her cross. She removed it before looking back up at Royce.
They stared at each other a long silent minute. She began to rub Ulric's shoulders in a circular motion, but kept her gaze fully directed on Royce.
She showed absolutely no fear in her expression, and she'd given the long sickle-shaped scar on his cheek little notice. Royce was a bit unsettled by that—he was used to quite a different reaction when women first saw his face. The disfigurement didn't seem to bother the nun, though. That pleased him considerably.
"Ulric's eyes are the same color as yours," Royce remarked.
That wasn't exactly true, he realized. The baby's eyes were a pretty blue. Danielle's were beautiful.
"Many Saxons have blue eyes," she replied. "Ulric will be eight months old in less than a week. Will he live that long, Norman?"
Because she asked the question in such a gentle, undemanding voice, Royce didn't take offense. "We Normans don't kill innocent children," he replied.
She nodded, then honored him with a smile. His heart started pounding in reaction. She had an enchanting dimple in her cheek, and, Lord, how her eyes could bewitch him. They weren't blue, he decided. They were violet, the identical shade of the fragile flower he'd once seen.
He really needed to get hold of his thoughts, he told himself. He was acting like a besotted squire. He was feeling just as awkward, too.
Royce was too old for such feelings. "How is it you've learned to speak our language so well?" he asked. His voice had gone hoarse.
She didn't seem to notice. "One of my brothers went with Harold, our Saxon king, to Normandy six years ago," she answered. "When he returned, he insisted we all conquer this language."
Ingelram moved to stand next to his baron. "Does your twin sister look like you?" he blurted out.
The nun turned to look at the soldier. She seemed to be taking his measure. Her stare was intense, unwavering. Ingelram, Royce noticed, turned bright red under her close scrutiny and couldn't hold her gaze long.
"Nicholaa and I are very much alike in appearance," she finally answered. "Most people cannot tell us apart. Our dispositions, however, are vastly different. I've an accepting nature, but my sister certainly doesn't. She has vowed to die before surrendering to England's invaders. Nicholaa believes it's only a matter of time before you Normans give up and go back home. 'Tis the truth, I fear for my sister's safety."
"Do you know where Lady Nicholaa went?" Ingelram asked. "My baron has need to know."
"Yes," she answered. She kept her gaze on the vassal. "If your baron will give me his assurance that no harm will come to my sister, I'll tell you her destination."
Ingelram let out a loud snort. "We Normans don't kill women. We tame them."
Royce felt like tossing his vassal out the doorway when he heard that arrogant boast. He noticed the nun didn't much care for the remark, either. Her expression turned mutinous, though only for a fleeting second. The flash of anger was quickly gone, too, replaced by a look of serenity.
His guard was suddenly up, and though he couldn't give a reason for his suspicions, he knew something was amiss.
"No harm will come to your sister," Royce said.
She looked relieved. Royce decided then her anger had been a reaction to her fear for her sister.
"Aye," Ingelram interjected with great enthusiasm. "Nicholaa is the king's prize."
"The king's prize?"
She was having difficulty hiding her anger now. Her face became flushed. Her voice, however, remained calm. "I don't understand what you mean. King Harold is dead."
"Your Saxon king is dead," Ingelram explained, "but duke William of Normandy is on his way to London even now and will soon be anointed king of all England. We have orders to take Nicholaa to London as soon as possible."
"For what purpose?" she asked.
"Your sister is the king's prize. He intends to award her to a noble knight." Ingelram's voice was filled with pride when he added, "That is an honor."
She shook her head. "You've still to explain why my sister is to become the king's prize," she whispered. "How would your William even know about Nicholaa?"
Royce wasn't about to let Ingelram enlighten the nun. The truth would only upset the gentlewoman. He shoved his vassal toward the doorway. "You have my word no harm will come to your sister," he promised Danielle again. "Now tell me her destination. You have no understanding of the dangers outside these walls. It's only a matter of time before she's captured, and there are, unfortunately, a few Normans who won't treat her kindly."
He'd softened the truth for the innocent woman, of course. He saw no reason to explain in detail the atrocities her twin would be subjected to if she was caught by ill-disciplined soldiers. He wanted to protect the nun from the harsh realities of life, to shelter her innocence from worldly sins, but if she refused to give him the information he needed, he would have to be more blunt with her.
"Will you give me your word you'll go after Nicholaa yourself? You won't give the duty to someone else?"
"It's important to you that I go?"
She nodded.
"Then I'll give you my word," he said. "Although I wonder why it matters to you if I go or send someone—"
"I believe you'll act with honor toward my sister," she interrupted. "You have already given me your word no harm will come to Nicholaa." She smiled again. "You would not have attained such a powerful position if you habitually broke your word. Besides, you're considerably older than the soldiers under your command, or so I was told by one of the servants. I believe you've learned patience and restraint by now. You'll need both to capture Nicholaa, for she can be very difficult when she's riled. She's clever, too."
Before Royce could respond to those comments, Danielle turned and walked over to the two women standing by the window. She handed the baby to the woman called Clarise, then whispered instructions to the other servant.
She turned back to Royce. "I shall give you my sister's destination after I've seen to your injury," she announced. "You've a fair-sized cut on your forehead, Baron. I'll clean and bandage it. Do sit down. It should only take a minute or two of your time."
Royce was so surprised by her thoughtfulness and her kindness that he didn't know how to react. He started to shake his head, then changed his mind. He finally sat down. Ingelram stood in the doorway, watching. The servant placed a bowl of water on the low chest next to the stool on which Royce sat while Danielle collected several strips of clean white cloth.
The baron swallowed up the stool. His long legs were stretched out in front of him. Danielle skirted her way between his feet and stood between his thighs.
He noticed her hands shook when she dipped the cloth into the water. She didn't say a word to him while she saw to his care, but when the injury was cleaned to her satisfaction and she was applying soothing salve, she asked him how he'd come by the wound.