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Married To Her Enemy
Jenni Fletcher


From captive to bride…Lady Aediva of Etton will do anything to protect her sister, Cille. So when enemies storm her family’s keep, Aediva assumes Cille’s identity…taking her place as prisoner of Sir Svend du Danemark.Svend’s sole aim is to fulfil his service to William the Conqueror, and rebuild the life a woman’s betrayal once lost him. So when he receives his new orders to quash the Saxon rebellion, he is stunned. To do his duty, he must vow to take the beautiful yet provoking Aediva as his wife!







From captive to bride...

Lady Aediva of Etton will do anything to protect her sister, Cille. So when enemies storm her family’s keep, Aediva assumes Cille’s identity...taking her place as prisoner of Sir Svend du Danemark.

Svend’s sole aim is to fulfill his service to William the Conqueror and rebuild the life a woman’s betrayal once lost him. So when he receives his new orders to quash the Saxon rebellion, he is stunned. To do his duty, he must vow to take the beautiful yet provoking Aediva as his wife!


‘Why?’ She looked panicked. ‘What does he want with me?’

He wishes for you to marry again.

The answer sprang to his lips, but the obvious fear in her voice made him hesitate. With his hand gripping her arm he felt suddenly irrationally protective. It wasn’t his place to tell her the Earl’s plans, but she was watching him, no longer defiant but frightened, asking him a question. He felt a stirring in his chest—something he hadn’t felt in a long time—as if something were shifting inside him. Damn it all, how could such a small woman have such a powerful effect on his senses?

‘He intends for you to marry again,’ he said softly, surprising himself.

‘Marry a Norman?’


Author Note (#uf0132068-111a-5ef2-9e51-cd734d9e7715)

The early years of William the Conqueror’s reign in England were marked by instability and rebellion. Some of those Saxon nobles who had survived the Battle of Hastings had their lands confiscated, but others were offered a chance to keep their homes in exchange for their allegiance. Most, however, such as the infamous Hereward the Wake in East Anglia, chose to rebel against the oppressive new Norman regime—though this generally took the form of stubborn resistance rather than outright warfare.

The description of William’s treatment of the rebels in this story is based on real-life events, most notably those that occurred during the brutal Harrying of the North in 1069. By this point the king had abandoned any attempt at compromise, to the extent that, according to the Domesday Book, by 1086 only five per cent of English land still remained in Saxon control.

This story, however, is set in Mercia in 1067—less than a year after the Conquest—when it might still have been possible to gain favour with the new king. William did reward his supporters with English land, and encouraged intermarriage between Norman and Saxon as a means to secure property and lend legitimacy to his kingship. In order to control a large, rebellious Saxon population he also started a campaign of castle-building almost immediately upon arriving in England, so although the stone castle described in this story is slightly ahead of its time, its presence is still plausible during a time of tumultuous political unrest and upheaval.


Married to Her Enemy

Jenni Fletcher






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


JENNI FLETCHER was born on the north coast of Scotland and now lives in Yorkshire, with her husband and two children. She wanted to be a writer as a child, but got distracted by reading instead, finally writing down her first paragraph thirty years later. She’s had more jobs than she can remember, but has finally found one she loves. She can be contacted via Twitter @jenniauthor (https://twitter.com/jenniauthor).

Married to Her Enemy is Jenni Fletcher’s gripping debut for Mills & Boon Historical Romance!

Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).


To my wonderful family, because you always said I could do it. And to Andy, my best friend.


Contents

Cover (#ud619956c-bb07-5a64-aeea-4dcc51895fa0)

Back Cover Text (#ub31b2116-7e18-5a87-889c-2c19275dcccb)

Introduction (#u29c346db-cf74-596f-941e-f00746711cfd)

Author Note (#u788f5470-b392-5b14-8e0a-c9207b194e9c)

Title Page (#u25d811b4-1a2d-5737-98f4-2b6d444471fd)

About the Author (#u9f13bbb0-795d-5717-b639-308426d4ee3c)

Dedication (#ucd1ba25e-b139-5d1a-ab62-f0a557382d29)

Chapter One (#uda1e3e31-cf1e-5aaa-aee4-084959db6405)

Chapter Two (#u0b791dd8-3588-589b-9229-93317b731860)

Chapter Three (#ue57584ff-241a-5935-9a5d-68910709b9da)

Chapter Four (#u1ccd454c-6081-5551-89b2-08d2b582ee79)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One (#uf0132068-111a-5ef2-9e51-cd734d9e7715)

Etton, near Peterborough, Mercia,

August 1067

Aediva shoved the full weight of her body against the heavy wooden gate, skidding in the mud as she finally dropped the iron locking bar.

Then she turned and ran. Back up the hill, back past the abandoned houses and scattered belongings dropped in the desperate rush to escape, back towards the Thane’s hall that stood, circular-shaped and slightly raised on a mound in the centre.

At the entrance she stopped, windswept hair tumbling over her face like a hazel and honey-flecked veil, glancing fearfully over her shoulder as if expecting to find an arrow aimed at her throat.

How long did they have? How long before the Conquest reached their door?

An hour if they were lucky.

Not long enough.

Then she blinked and the fear was gone, replaced by a steely determination. The Normans might be coming, but she had another, more urgent crisis to deal with first.

Breathless, she charged into the hall, skirting around the still-smoking central fireplace before bursting headlong into the birthing chamber.

‘How is she?’ She dropped, panting, into the straw by the bed. ‘Is the babe any further along?’

Eadgyth, the midwife, shook her grey head sadly. ‘Not yet. She needs to push.’

‘But she’s been pushing for hours!’

Aediva chewed her lip anxiously, still weighing their chances of escape. How could it be taking so long? How much more could Cille’s small body take? Every moment of delay brought the Normans closer towards them. Every moment increased the risk of capture, or worse. But Cille’s baby seemed in no hurry to be born.

‘What can I do?’

‘Nothing. All we can do is wait.’

Wait! Aediva caught her breath, trying to stave off the rising tide of panic, the feeling that her whole world—the Saxon world that she knew—was collapsing around her head. First Leofric, then her father and now Cille. Not to mention Edmund. The last year had brought so much heartache and suffering, surely she couldn’t lose her sister as well?

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to banish the memory of that morning: the dull thud of Cille’s swooning body, the terrible slow spread of blood through the rushes. News of the Norman soldiers’ approach had finally shocked her into labour, albeit not before time. The babe was already dangerously late, but Aediva had thought her older sister still asleep, not listening as she’d ordered their people to pack up and flee east, towards the Fens, one of the last strongholds of Saxon resistance. If it hadn’t been for that shock, they might all have escaped.

‘They’ve gone, then?’ Eadgyth handed her a cup of mead.

‘Aye.’

She took a long draught, listening to the heavy rumble of carts in the distance, wondering if she’d done the right thing. She’d made the decision on Cille’s behalf, just as she’d made every decision since their father’s death that last winter, taking over the day-to-day running of the village while her sister prepared for her confinement. Not that Cille had shown even the slightest interest in her inheritance. Since her unexpected arrival in the spring she’d seemed a mere ghost of her former self, barely talking let alone taking charge.

Which had left her to do it, acting as Thane in deed if not name, doing her best to behave as their father would have wanted. But then he’d never faced a Norman invasion! How could she know what he would have done? Would he have run away or simply refused to leave, like Eadgyth? Or put up a fight, defending Etton to the bitter and bloody end? Her heart suspected the latter, but her head had prevailed. What chance did Saxon farmers have against Norman soldiers?

Her gaze slid towards the leather curtain that separated the birthing chamber from the hall, as if she were expecting a horde of Normans to burst through at any moment. What chance did three women have?

She only hoped she’d done the right thing.

She leaned over and stroked the side of Cille’s face—her face, so like hers that they might have been twins, not sisters born two years apart. Every small feature seemed to mirror her own, from the sharply arched brows to the slightly pointed chin. Only their eyes told them apart. Cille’s a warm forget-me-not blue, soft and gentle as a summer’s sky, and her own a fiery brown with gold flecks flashing like lightning across them.

A tear seeped from the corner of one of those eyes now and she brushed it aside, reaching across to clasp Cille’s trembling hands between her own. The fingers felt damp and clammy, as if she were sweating and shivering at the same time. In mercy’s name, how much more could either of them take?

‘Take care of the baby.’

The voice was faint, but Aediva jumped, afraid that she might have imagined it. But, no, those were Cille’s eyes staring up at her, black orbs ringed with crimson shadows so large they seemed to drain the life from her small, sunken face.

‘Hush.’ She smiled reassuringly. ‘You need to save your strength.’

‘Please...’ Cille’s voice was ragged, but the look on her face was deadly serious. ‘Promise me. Take care of my child.’

Aediva caught her breath, hot tears scalding the backs of her eyelids. ‘I promise.’

‘There’s something else.’ Cille heaved herself up on her elbows, ignoring Eadgyth’s grunt of protest. ‘Something I need to tell you.’

‘Later. You need to...’

She left the sentence unfinished as she heard a noise outside—a faint rumble at first, building steadily to a thunderous crescendo. The unmistakable heavy pounding of hooves, and lots of them.

Warhorses!

A jolt of panic tore through her body. She’d thought she could control her emotions, but now that the time had come and all hope of escape was lost all she could feel was the rush of blood in her ears and the terrible, deafening thud of her own heartbeat.

Not yet! The plea echoed in her head. Not before the baby was born! They needed more time!

Cille sank back onto the bed with a gasp, her body convulsing with pain. Had she heard it too?

Aediva exchanged a look with Eadgyth, an unspoken message passing between them, and then reached under the bed and drew out a long iron broadsword. It was almost as tall as she was, and heavy to boot, but it was a formidable weapon. She only hoped she could wield it.

Briefly she glanced down at her dishevelled appearance. She’d barely had time to dress that morning, throwing on a simple homespun tunic that was already mud-stained and tattered. Her hair was even more unkempt, coiling down her back in a mass of tangles. She hadn’t had time to put on a headdress. Not that it mattered. What the Normans thought of her appearance was the very least of her worries.

She dropped a kiss onto Cille’s forehead and pulled back the curtain to the deserted hall. Now that the first rush of panic was over, she knew what she had to do.

She took a deep breath, willing her heart to stop racing. She couldn’t help Cille give birth, but she could keep the Norman invaders away until the baby was born. No matter what, she wouldn’t let them into this chamber.

No matter what. Or who.

* * *

Sir Svend du Danemark ran a hand through pale blond hair and swore fluently under his breath.

‘It looks like they knew we were coming.’

His squire, Renard, had a habit of stating the obvious.

Steel-blue eyes narrowed, taking in every detail of the terrain with the experienced gaze of a professional soldier. The base of the valley was a craggy gorge, split down the middle by a meandering river that carried water from the high hills to the east. There was no sign of habitation, just gorse and a scattering of twisted hawthorns, but as the river curved to the south, the land rose and flattened out into a ledge, revealing the stockade of a small, almost completely hidden settlement. No wonder it had taken so long to find.

Svend swallowed another oath. At this time of year the villagers should have been busy harvesting their crops, but the long strips of farmland were deserted. Instead he could see fresh furrows in the mud, tracks left by horses and carts. If they’d put out a banner the residents couldn’t have made their departure any more obvious.

‘Ten shillings if she’s still here?’ Renard persisted.

‘Twenty,’ Svend murmured, resisting the urge to knock his squire into the mud.

In truth, he would have paid a lot more to get this over with. Hunting a woman was no honourable task for a knight and he resented his orders—even if they did come from the King via his cousin, William FitzOsbern, the new Earl of Hereford.

Hawklike, his gaze narrowed in on the meagre earthen defences. What in blazes was Lady Cille doing here? The village was well hidden, but hardly a stronghold. What had made her flee a fortress like Redbourn and take refuge in such an isolated place? And why the hell was he wasting his time finding her? Surely the future of the Conquest couldn’t depend on one Saxon woman!

There must be something more important he could be doing!

He kept his thoughts to himself. He’d learnt to keep his own counsel a long time ago, preferring to live up to the reputation his men had ascribed him of being inscrutable, keeping his emotions well hidden.

‘Take the men and surround the palisade.’ He rubbed the light blond stubble on his chin with irritation. He needed a bath and a shave. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

‘You’re going alone, sir?’

Renard’s expression was anxious and Svend raised an eyebrow, not sure whether to be amused or insulted. ‘She’s only one woman.’

‘But it might be a trap. The Saxons might be hiding.’

‘Perhaps.’ He bit back a sarcastic retort. ‘But she’s more likely to come peacefully if we don’t scare the wits out of her.’

‘She might be armed.’

‘I’m certain of it.’

He placed a reassuring hand on the younger man’s shoulder. Renard was a good squire, and would make a fine knight one day, but he could be annoyingly over-attentive at times.

‘Don’t worry. You’ll be close by if she overpowers me.’

He winked, spurring his destrier forward before Renard could detect the sarcasm. The hill was steep but he surged fearlessly ahead, trusting his mount’s training and his men’s obedience as they thundered towards the stockade, his blond hair, worn to shoulder-length rather than in the cropped Norman fashion, streaming behind him like a banner of white gold, as if he were charging headlong into battle.

The wind tore at his face and he grinned, sharing his mount’s exhilaration. Talbot was a fine specimen, sixteen hands high at his grey shoulder, and worth every bruise it had taken to win him. Svend’s grin spread wickedly as he recalled the French Baron whose haughty dismissal of a fifteen-year-old farmer’s son had cost him his finest warhorse—not to mention his dignity before the then Duke William of Normandy.

It was the same day that he’d been plucked from a life of brawling in tournaments and offered training as a household knight—been given a sense of focus and purpose, a way to vent the anger of his past. His low rank hadn’t made him popular with the rest of the high-born squires at William’s court, but thick skin and quick fists had earned him a position he could never have dreamed of. Knighthood and a place in the King’s personal guard. It was no mean feat for the fourth son of a Danish farmer.

Not to mention an outlaw.

He drew rein in front of the wooden palisade and dismounted, tossing his cloak aside and drawing his sword from its scabbard in one fluid movement. The ground was muddy—hardly surprising after a week of near constant rain and mizzle—and it covered his boots in a cloying, sticky mess. Not for the first time he found himself wondering why they’d left Normandy for this fogbound, rain-soaked isle. He was heartily sick of the rough terrain, the appalling weather and, most of all, this search for a woman who seemed more phantom than flesh and blood.

Phantom. His mouth curved in a mirthless smile. That was what his men called her. Impossible to find, let alone to capture. They’d spent two weeks travelling in circles, searching for Etton’s hidden valley. And now, from the look of things, she’d eluded them yet again.

He muttered another imprecation. The Earl had promised to reward him on the King’s behalf upon his return to Redbourn—some share in the spoils of conquest for ten years’ loyal service—just as soon as he found the woman.

At this rate it would take another ten years.

He took his frustration out on the gate, shattering the wooden frame with one kick and sending the locking bar spinning ten feet into the mud. He frowned at the sight of it. If the gate had been barred from the inside there might still be a chance she was there. Foolish of him not to have checked, letting frustration get the better of caution, but no matter. The village was clearly deserted, the wattle-and-daub dwellings empty and abandoned.

He stalked between them, past broken pots and dropped blankets strewn haphazardly over the rough ground, as if the inhabitants had left recently and in a rush. He felt a now familiar twinge of unease. Clearly the fearsome Norman reputation had preceded them—bloodthirsty tales of retribution and punishment. The thought made him uncomfortable. Rule by fear was no just way to govern a country, but the King was implacable towards those who resisted his rule.

Svend wanted no part of it. For the first time in his career he found himself questioning his King’s methods. How could the Conquest ever be peaceful when Normans were so hated?

He reached the Thane’s hall and thrust his sword point-first into the mud. No matter what Renard’s concerns, if by some unlikely chance she were still hiding inside, there’d be little enough room for swordplay and he had no desire to fight a woman. He still carried his sax on his belt, but he had no intention of using it. He’d bring her by force if he had to, but he wouldn’t hurt her—not if he could help it.

Unlike a Norman fortress, there was no wooden door, just a heavy oxhide draped over the entrance. Cautiously he pulled it aside and stepped over the threshold. A shaft of light filtered in through a hole in the centre of the thatched roof, helping his eyes adjust to the half-darkness. As he’d expected, the hall was deserted—and yet something about the scene wasn’t right. The room was empty, not abandoned. And there was a strange sound coming from behind a partition at the back, like an animal whimpering in pain.

He took a step towards it and then stopped, realising his error a split second too late as the blade pricked the back of his neck.

‘Don’t move!’ The voice was soft but determined, and unmistakably female. More surprisingly, it was speaking in perfect French. ‘Raise your hands!’

He did as he was told, annoyed by his own complacency. He’d been caught out like some raw, callow recruit—but then he’d never expected to find her completely alone. Where were her men? Surely there was somebody here to defend her?

He put his hands on the back of his head, starting to turn. ‘You’re a difficult woman to find, Lady Cille.’

‘Stop! Stay as you are!’

The blade pressed harder against his skin, but he detected a faint tremor. She was afraid.

Briefly he considered disarming her. The position of the sword told him everything he needed to know about her combat skills. A more practised opponent would have pointed the blade to his throat. But he decided to try diplomacy first.

‘My name is Sir Svend du Danemark. I mean you no harm.’

There was a lengthy pause as he waited, inhaling the sweet, heady scent of summer flowers, which reminded him of his home in Danemark.

Fool. He didn’t have a home. He’d left his parents’ farm half a lifetime ago.

‘My lady?’ He prompted her, pushing the memory aside.

‘How did you find me?’ She spoke slowly, as if choosing her words with care.

‘With difficulty. Etton isn’t an easy place to find.’

‘And what do you want from me?’

He felt a flash of irritation. If she thought to interrogate him she’d be swiftly disappointed. Even so, the hint of steel in that soft voice was intriguing. ‘The King’s deputy sent me to find you.’

‘The King’s deputy?’ She sounded genuinely surprised. ‘Why?’

He paused, having considered the same question at length over the past weeks. It couldn’t simply be her value in marriage. As a Saxon noblewoman, and widow of ealdorman Leofric of Redbourn, she’d lend legitimacy to a Norman husband’s authority, but it was unlike FitzOsbern to expend so much time and effort on one who’d proved so troublesome. There had to be something else—something special about her.

He’d hardly been in Redbourn long enough to hear any rumours. The Earl had summoned and then dispatched him almost as soon as he’d arrived. But there had to be a reason. Somehow he’d hoped she might be able to tell him.

The blade pushed harder. ‘Have you lost your tongue, Norman whoreson?’

He grinned, having heard the insult numerous times over the past few months, though rarely spoken with such venom. Clearly Saxon ladies weren’t as sheltered as their Norman counterparts.

‘I’m not party to the Earl’s thoughts, my lady,’ he answered with exaggerated courtesy.

There was another cry from the back—less like an animal, more like a woman sobbing. His brows snapped together.

‘You can’t come in here!’

By the note of panic in her voice he could tell his assailant had heard it too.

‘I can’t?’ His voice was low and dangerous, all trace of humour extinguished.

‘You have to leave!’ Her voice rose higher, becoming hysterical as the blade shuddered against his neck.

It was time to end this.

He moved so fast that she had no time to react. In less than a heartbeat he was facing her, clamping his hands together over the flat sides of her sword and hurling it easily into the floor rushes, then hooking a foot expertly around her legs, knocking them out from under her so that she tumbled backwards, straight into his waiting arms.

It wasn’t a manoeuvre that he’d ever used before, usually preferring that his opponents stayed down when he disarmed them. But then none of his opponents had ever been a woman...and none so light and willowy as the one now cradled in his arms, the dark honey waves of her long hair rippling over his hands almost to the floor.

For a heart-stopping moment he thought he might drop her. It wasn’t because she was pretty, though she undoubtedly was. Her small face was that of a woman in her late teens or early twenties, lightly tanned with smooth, round cheekbones and a pair of pink bow-shaped lips. It was her eyes that held him. Unlike any he’d ever seen before, so wide and lustrous he might almost fall into them. What colour were they? A swirl of copper and gold, fringed with long black lashes, strange and beguiling as jewels.

He shook his head, trying to break the spell. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but the roundabout journey to Etton had hardly disposed him to think charitably of his quarry.

The change as her face contorted into an expression of implacable fury, was enough to render him speechless.

The knife was flicked out of her sleeve so fast that he was almost caught off guard. But a lifetime of fighting had honed his reflexes to the point that he caught her wrist instinctively, stopping the blade a hair’s breadth from his chest.

‘Norman pig!’

She shrieked in her anger and he heard voices outside, followed by footsteps running in their direction. He called out, ordering his men to stop even as she screamed and hurled herself bodily against him, sending both of them sprawling into the rushes.

Svend landed heavily, trying to shield her from both the fall and herself as she thrashed recklessly against him, heedless of the blade still between them, pummelling at his chest as if she wanted to pound him into the ground. The scent of flowers filled his nostrils—honeysuckle and daisies, like a meadow he wanted to bury his face in. He tossed the weapon aside and captured her arms above her head instead, clamping his hands over her wrists like iron manacles.

Still she refused to yield, flailing against him like a cornered animal, fists beating impotently at thin air. He felt a vague sense of surprise. Pretty she might be, but she was also half wild, with an impressive temper to boot.

He rolled on top of her, pinning her legs to the floor with his own, struggling to keep his weight on his arms. She wasn’t the sort of woman he was accustomed to having beneath him, so slight and slender he was almost afraid he might break her.

Then he waited, letting her fury wear itself out. Trapped beneath him, she flung herself from side to side, arching her back and squirming as she tried to escape. Her small breasts heaved against his chest and he felt a stirring in his loins, quickly suppressed. This was hardly the time for such thoughts, but her endless writhing was bringing to mind other, more enjoyable pursuits.

‘I’m not going to hurt you!’ he muttered through gritted teeth, dragging his mind away from the snug fit of her body beneath his. He’d never taken advantage of a vulnerable woman before and he wasn’t about to start now. If she’d only stop wriggling...

‘Scum! Son of a Norman bitch!’

She kept on thrashing against him, venting her anger in a torrent of what he assumed was Anglo-Saxon abuse. Long hazel hair tumbled over his chest like a silken blanket, stirring his senses, and his gaze fell to her lips. They looked full and soft and suddenly desirable. But her eyes...

If looks could kill he’d be dead a hundred times over. Her eyes were aflame with anger. He couldn’t blame her. He was a Norman and she’d lost her husband at Hastings. He’d seen the same look of raw loathing in the faces of her countrymen every day for months, and yet it unsettled him to see it so close. He wanted her to look at him with something other than hatred, with a very different emotion...

Damn it, he must have been without a woman too long if he was drawn to this Saxon wildcat.

With an effort, he steered his thoughts in a different direction. Why was she still resisting? He felt an unwanted flicker of admiration. From long experience he knew that most opponents would have surrendered by now, but by the determined gleam in those fiery eyes it was clear that she’d never submit. She would fight to the bitter end.

And he didn’t want to fight her. She was just one of the Conquest’s many victims—a woman whose whole existence, like that of her people, had been overturned by the Norman invasion—but at that moment he was the one holding her down. And he didn’t want to.

Something inside him rebelled. He’d seen enough injustice in his life, didn’t want to be a part of any more. He was a warrior, but he was also a man, and something about this felt wrong. He wouldn’t be the one to defeat her.

He released her abruptly, letting her push back against him until their positions were reversed and she was sitting astride him, legs straddling his thighs, her whole body coiled to attack. With a cry of triumph she snatched up the knife and swung her arm back, as if making ready to plunge it into his heart.

Then she froze, her expression suddenly stricken as the knife hung motionless in the air.

At the same moment, the curtain swung open and Renard stood framed in the doorway, his jaw dropping at the sight before him.

‘Sir? Should we come in now?’

Svend’s gaze remained fixed on the woman looming threateningly above him. He flexed a wrist, ready to deflect the knife, but he didn’t think he would need to. She was panting heavily, her chest rising and falling as if she’d been running, but she looked dazed, as if she were only seeing him for the first time.

‘Renard.’ He addressed his squire as if there were nothing unusual in the scene. ‘It seems you were right to be cautious. We’ve found our phantom. This is Lady Cille.’


Chapter Two (#uf0132068-111a-5ef2-9e51-cd734d9e7715)

‘How long has she been like this?’

Aediva bristled. Bad enough that he had dared to enter the birthing chamber, but now this Norman invader was insolent enough to ask questions, as if Cille’s condition were any of his business. This wasn’t his place. It was no man’s place.

‘The pains started early this morning,’ Eadgyth answered. ‘She’s sleeping now, but it won’t be long.’

Aediva threw Eadgyth a worried glance, willing her not to call Cille by name. She’d taken her sister’s identity on the spur of the moment, without considering the consequences if her deception were uncovered. Now she had to maintain the pretence at least until the baby was born. Cille was in no condition to deal with Normans, let alone this warrior whose wintry blue gaze seemed altogether too perceptive. She had to warn Eadgyth before she said something to give them away...

Her mouth fell open. Eadgyth had spoken to him! Which meant...

‘You speak Saxon?’

Pale eyebrows arched upwards. ‘As you speak French.’

‘My father thought it important. Besides, that’s hardly uncommon. Not many Normans speak Saxon.’

‘Fewer than you think. I’m not Norman.’

She tilted her head towards him enquiringly but he was already looking at her, his gaze wandering over her face as if a new idea had just struck him. She fought the urge to take a step backwards. Such intense scrutiny made her uncomfortable. What was he looking at?

His gaze dropped. Slowly, almost leisurely, it travelled down over her neck and breasts. Lower. And lower. Past her waist, lingering over the curve of her hips, down to her toes and back up again, as if memorising every inch of her body. She flushed, her skin tingling wherever his eyes rested, as if they might strip away her gown and see the nakedness beneath. Instinctively her hands coiled into fists. Conquering warrior he might be, but she was a Thane’s daughter! How dared he insult her so brazenly?

He jerked his head towards the bed. ‘She’s your sister?’

She nodded cautiously. The question was casual—too casual. She felt a cold sweat break out on the back of her neck, hardly trusting herself to speak. It was obvious that they were sisters. Was he suspicious? Had he guessed who she really was? She had the discomforting feeling that he was testing her.

‘You’re very alike.’

‘I’ve noticed.’ She bit her lip instantly, regretting the sarcasm. She should try to ingratiate herself, not insult him.

His eyes flashed with something like humour. How could eyes be so intensely blue? she wondered. It was a blue that seemed to change every time she looked at them, sometimes so pale as to seem almost white, sometimes a vivid, piercing turquoise. People said that her eyes were unusual, but his were almost hypnotic. When they demanded she meet them, there was no way to refuse.

Like now. What did his scrutiny mean? What was he thinking?

He turned towards Eadgyth abruptly. ‘Is the baby moving? And facing the right way?’

‘Yes, but the mother is weak. She can’t stand much more.’

‘How close together are the pains?’

‘Close enough.’

Aediva looked between them, feeling suddenly out of place and excluded. Not many men had more than a vague idea about the mysteries of childbirth, preferring to leave such matters to their womenfolk, but this man seemed to know more about the birthing process than she did.

‘Is there anything you need?’ He sounded genuinely solicitous.

‘Something hot to eat wouldn’t hurt.’

He strode purposefully out of the chamber, leaving Aediva open-mouthed. Had this Norman warrior really just taken orders from an old Saxon midwife?

‘Not a monster after all,’ Eadgyth muttered.

She closed her mouth with a snap. ‘He’s still a Norman.’

‘Be glad you’re still alive to say so.’ Eadgyth looked her up and down critically. ‘What on earth happened to you, girl?’

Aediva turned her face aside, cheeks flaring anew. Eadgyth was right. She was lucky not to be in chains. What had she been thinking? She’d armed herself with no real intention except to warn the Normans off, but far from bartering with them, or pleading for mercy, she’d clambered on top of their commander and aimed a blade at his heart, channelling the full force of her fear and anger into one frenzied, pointless attack. For certes, Cille would never have done such a thing.

And what had she hoped to achieve? She couldn’t possibly have fought off a whole Norman battalion. She hadn’t even stopped one man. Fighting her off had caused him little more effort than batting away a troublesome fly. And now it seemed she didn’t even matter enough to be punished. She didn’t know whether to feel relieved or insulted.

The sound of footsteps brought her back to herself.

‘He thinks I’m Cille,’ she whispered hurriedly, throwing a worried glance over her shoulder as Svend reappeared in the doorway, bearing a thick, fur-lined cloak in one hand and a wineskin in the other.

For the first time she looked at him properly, free to do so now that his attention no longer held hers. Strange that she hadn’t done it before, but somehow those blue eyes had made everything around them seem like a blur.

He was unlike any man she’d ever seen before—like a Viking from one of the old stories, a dangerous warrior from a wintry land across the sea. He was young, still in his mid-twenties, but there was no doubting his air of authority. His taut, muscular body was clad in a simple leather gambeson and dark hose, shunning armour except for a top of light chainmail.

Eadgyth was right; he wasn’t a monster. Far from it. If he hadn’t been her enemy she might have called him handsome. No, she corrected herself, that word was too bland. His features were too rugged to be called simply handsome, his jaw too squarely set, those glacial eyes too piercingly, disconcertingly blue.

Why did she keep coming back to his eyes?

She watched him cross the room, remembering the feel of his muscular body over hers, the vivid sensation of strength held in check. She’d aimed a dagger at his heart and yet he hadn’t fought back, hadn’t lain so much as a finger on her except in restraint. And then he’d let her go. Why? She could never have beaten him and yet he’d let her reclaim the knife. Had he been toying with her? Or had she really found a chink in his defences?

‘One of my men is preparing broth,’ he murmured, passing the wineskin to Eadgyth. ‘This contains feverfew. It should ease the pain.’

He moved to the far side of the bed and raised Cille gently, draping the cloak around her shoulders and holding her steady as the midwife pressed the spiced liquid to her lips.

Aediva stared transfixed at the scene before her. He is our enemy! she wanted to scream to the rafters. A Norman, or as good as! Had the world turned upside down? Normans were cold-hearted, ruthless invaders! They’d killed Leofric in battle, murdered her father in cold blood, driven Edmund away—destroyed the very fabric of their lives! So why was he helping them and not punishing her? And how could they possibly accept help from such a tainted source?

Cille’s flickering eyelids gave her the answer. She was gulping the liquid down greedily, as if she hadn’t touched a drop for days, seeming to gain strength with every mouthful.

‘Here.’

Without looking up, Svend shifted aside to let her take over and she brushed past him warily, careful not to make contact as she slid an arm under his and around Cille’s narrow shoulders. She was uncomfortably aware of his proximity, of the heat radiating from his broad chest, reminding her that less than an hour before, she’d thrown herself against it in an abandoned murderous frenzy. Wanton or murderess—which would he think was worse?

And why should she care?

He moved around the bed, apparently oblivious to her discomfort, and crouched down on one knee, bringing his face level to Cille’s.

‘My lady, in the name of King William, I promise that no harm will come to you or your child.’

Even through the heavy cloak Aediva could feel some of the tension ease from Cille’s trembling shoulders. She gaped at him in amazement. The unexpectedly gentle, reassuring tone of his voice, so utterly at odds with his warrior-like appearance, was having a similar effect on her own tattered nerves. How could this man, their enemy, be inspiring such confidence?

He glanced up suddenly, then away again, as if he hadn’t seen her, and her anger reasserted itself. He might be helping them now, but if it hadn’t been for this Norman’s arrival, Cille would still be safely awaiting her baby. Offering his protection was the very least he could do!

Cille groaned and Eadgyth stooped to feel her swollen stomach, nodding with satisfaction. ‘It’s time.’

Svend nodded and strode briskly to the doorway, pausing briefly on the threshold. His broad shoulders filled the space easily.

‘If you need anything, one of my men will be waiting outside.’

Then he was gone, leaving Aediva staring at a swinging curtain, emotions in turmoil. Of course she was glad that he’d gone, and yet his presence had been inexplicably reassuring—as if Cille had been safe when he was close by. Typical of a Norman to inflict himself upon them and then leave...

‘Are you going to help me or not?’

Eadgyth’s shrill voice interrupted her thoughts.

‘Fetch some water, girl!’

She leapt to her feet, smitten with guilt at neglecting Cille, if only for a moment. Her distraction was his fault too.

Never again, she promised herself.

Svend du Danemark wouldn’t distract her again. Not ever.

* * *

Aediva stumbled out into the courtyard, gulping mouthfuls of air like water. After the stultifying atmosphere of the birthing chamber it was a relief to be out in the open.

It was twilight. But on what day? An eternity seemed to have passed since she’d last felt the cool breeze on her skin.

She leaned back against the timbered wall and looked up at the first scattered sprinkling of stars, letting the tension ease from her tired limbs. It was over. Cille had a son, a tiny red bundle with powerful lungs that had already made more noise than his mother had in her whole life.

She smiled, recalling the blissful look on Cille’s face as she’d cradled her newborn baby to her breast, so happy even after so much pain. Cille had defied their worst fears, her small body proving stronger than they’d dared to imagine. Aediva had known that childbirth was dangerous, but she hadn’t realised it could be so brutal.

Tears welled in her eyes. Was that how it had been for their own mother? Had she suffered so much?

‘Lady Cille?’

She jumped, dismayed to be caught at such a vulnerable moment. She didn’t normally let down her defences so easily, but her emotions were still raw and the stress of the day had made her careless.

She hadn’t heard him approach, but Svend was already standing beside her, barely an arm’s length away, pale eyes glinting like twin crystals in the near darkness. He must have shaved, because his stubble was gone and his jutting cheekbones were even more prominent in his tanned face, his blond hair slicked back as if he’d just finished bathing. She’d never seen a man without a beard before. His skin looked smooth, the strong line of his jaw soft and almost strokeable. She found herself wanting to reach out and touch it. Instead she scowled deliberately.

‘Forgive me.’ He bowed stiffly. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. Is there news?’

‘What do you care?’

She tossed her hair and stared into the distance, reluctant to meet his gaze until she had her tumultuous emotions under control. After his too intimate assessment of her in the birthing chamber, he’d barely glanced in her direction, but now his scrutiny was back—too close, too penetrating. Why did he have to stare at her again now, when she wanted to be alone? How long had he been watching her?

She thought she heard a sigh, but when she looked back his expression was blank, impenetrable.

‘You should eat,’ he said finally.

For a moment she thought of refusing, but the very idea of food made her ravenous. A curl of smoke twisted up from a chimney in one of the abandoned cottages, accompanied by a strong smell of cooking, and she felt her stomach tighten with hunger.

Svend gestured towards it and then stepped aside, letting her precede him across the courtyard. It was another thoughtful gesture, but she refused to acknowledge it. Now that the crisis was over, her nerves felt stretched to breaking point. She felt utterly drained and exposed. Why was it proving so hard to pull herself back together?

She looked around, trying to clear her befuddled head, and experienced a vague sense of surprise. She’d assumed that the Normans would take over the Thane’s hall, but they were scattered throughout the village, billeted in the recently vacated dwellings. Damn them, why were they being so reasonable? She didn’t want to feel indebted.

Not looking where she was going, she tripped and stumbled headlong into the cottage, a foot catching in her tunic and dragging her down. At once a strong hand gripped her elbow, but she shied away, hitting the ground with a thud, preferring to sprawl in the dirt than accept any further help. If he did one more honourable thing she would scream.

Svend stared down at her for a long moment, his expression set hard as tempered steel as she glared defiantly back, ignoring the pain in her hands and knees where she’d grazed them, daring him to help her up.

‘As you wish,’ he commented icily, striding to the central fireplace and ladling out a bowl of steaming broth. ‘Will you deign to eat Norman food or would you prefer dirt?’

Aediva struggled to her feet, abandoning the last shreds of her dignity as she snatched up the bowl and drained the contents in a few short gulps. The warmth coiled through her limbs, giving her strength, but she still couldn’t bring herself to thank him.

Instead she licked her lips, savouring the last taste of broth, delaying the moment when she’d have to face him again. The fire flickered and crackled between them, casting eerie shadows along the walls and filling her nostrils with woodsmoke. She looked around the room and felt a shiver of unease. Aside from a few cracked earthenware pots and a straw mattress it was completely empty, when just this morning it had been a home.

She could sense his eyes on her, but when she finally looked up they were hooded.

‘It’s a boy,’ she said finally. ‘Eadgyth says he’s a reasonable size.’

‘That’s a good sign.’

‘She said so too.’

She hesitated, loath to tell him any more, but somehow it seemed ungrateful not to.

‘My sister’s asleep, and her breathing’s steady.’

Aediva, she told herself. She should say Aediva. But she couldn’t trust herself with the lie. Not yet—not when he was standing so close.

‘I’m glad of it.’

‘And the babe is called Leofric after h... My husband.’

She bit her lip, mortified that she’d almost given herself away. But this Norman’s proximity was unsettling. It distracted her. The cottage seemed too small with him in it, as if the walls were closing in on her. Or was he too big? She hadn’t noticed how tall he was before. The top of her head barely grazed his shoulder. Not to mention his chest. If both she and Cille stood together behind him no one would guess they were there.

Suddenly she wished she were back in the birthing chamber, back in the open air—anywhere but there.

She gave him a searching glance but he seemed not to have noticed her slip. Still, it would be too easy to give herself away. Perhaps it was time to tell him the truth, to admit who she was and that she’d been pretending to be her own sister. After all, he’d been unexpectedly kind to Cille. If she admitted the truth now he might let the lie pass, but the longer she deceived him the worse it would surely be. He didn’t look like a man who’d take kindly to being deceived. He would be angry...furious, even.

But at least he couldn’t blame Cille...

No, she decided, she wouldn’t tell him the truth just yet. She’d bear the brunt of his anger when it came, but it was too soon for Cille to be burdened with questions. Eadgyth had said she’d recover, but she was still weak. And she needed time with her baby. Whatever this warrior wanted could wait.

She peered at him from under her lashes, but his expression was closed, revealing nothing of the thoughts underneath. What did he want? Whatever it was, he looked like a man accustomed to getting his own way.

Well, that didn’t mean she would give it. And before she said anything—before she simply turned her sister over to him—she ought to find out what it was...

* * *

Svend stayed silent, unwilling to intrude upon her grief. The mention of her husband seemed to have upset her and he knew better than to offer sympathy.

What the hell had he been thinking, trying to offer solace at all? She’d looked so upset outside the hall that he’d assumed the worst, had felt drawn to comfort her despite himself. Why? What did it matter to him if she was upset? Women cried every day—their reasons for doing so were none of his concern. The world was a hard place, and the sooner everyone learned that, the better. No one had comforted him when he’d been forced to leave his home and family. So why did the sight of this woman crying bother him so much?

He frowned, trying to unravel the skein of his own tangled emotions. It was this place. He hadn’t noticed it at first, but something about it felt strangely familiar, stirring memories he’d thought long since forgotten. He’d seen villages enough since his arrival in England, but this one felt different. This one might have been his village in Danemark, one of these houses his home. The woman in the bed might have been one of his sisters, Agnethe or Helvig—young girls when he’d left them, probably mothers themselves by now. The feeling had been so striking that he’d felt bound to help her.

As for Lady Cille... Nothing about her was sisterly at all. Quite the opposite. So why was he still trying to comfort her?

He watched her out of the corner of his eye, studying her silhouette in the firelight, her slender figure still obvious and enticing despite her tattered tunic. Her waist was so small that his hands would probably meet if he wrapped them around it—which he realised he wanted to, and badly. He wanted to slide them down the slender curve of her hips, over her thighs, up and under her tunic, between her legs...

A surge of desire coursed through him. Was that all his concern meant, then? That he was attracted to her? The idea was...surprising. He was no stranger to women, nor was he easily swayed by feminine charms. And she was nothing at all like the kind of woman he was usually drawn to. She was too small, too delicate-looking—as if a strong wind might carry her away. A tender reed with a temper too big for her body.

Clearly he’d been in the company of men for too long. He desired a woman, that was all, and in the meanwhile he had no time to soothe tender feelings—especially those of a prisoner who’d just tried to kill him.

Besides, she was hiding something—he was sure of it. Just as he was certain that a pack of rabid wolves wouldn’t drag it from her. In the birthing chamber, he’d let his eyes rake her body deliberately to unsettle her, to undermine whatever premeditated answers she might have intended to give him. The fact that he’d wanted to look was simply a bonus. And she’d definitely been unsettled. The flicker of panic when he’d asked if they were sisters had been fleeting, but unmistakable.

He’d assumed that she was Lady Cille because she had answered to the name and fitted the description he’d been given exactly. But then so did the woman in the bed... Quickly, he filtered through the few details he’d been given. Lady Cille was the young widow of the ealdorman of Redbourn, hazel-haired, slight of build, kind and virtuous. But weren’t all wives described as virtuous? No one had mentioned golden eyes or a violent temper. And he found it impossible to believe that anyone could describe the woman before him without mentioning her eyes.

On the other hand, surely someone would have told him if Lady Cille had been with child!

He pushed his suspicions aside. As usual he was being too analytical, too thorough. This was no military campaign, to be examined from every angle, just a simple assignment. Find the woman and take her back to Redbourn. Whatever she was hiding was none of his concern.

‘What do you want from me, Norman?’ She spun around suddenly, interrupting his musing.

He ignored the question, absorbing her anger impassively, vaguely impressed. At least she didn’t try to inveigle him with sweet words, or try to flirt her way out of trouble, like most women of his acquaintance. He doubted this one knew how to do either. She was clearly overwrought and exhausted. But he had his own questions—ones that couldn’t wait. And besides, he had to prepare her for what lay ahead—though, judging by her temper so far, he ought to arm himself first.

‘She’s alone here, your sister?’

Her face clouded instantly. ‘Yes, apart from Eadgyth and me. I ordered our people to leave for their own safety.’

He ignored the jibe. ‘And her husband?’

She blinked, as if the question surprised her, and he raised an eyebrow. ‘She has a husband, I presume?’

‘Of course! Edmund.’

‘But he’s not here?’

‘No.’

She didn’t elaborate and his eyebrow inched higher. ‘No?’

‘He joined the rebellion.’

‘And left his wife with child?’

She shrugged. ‘I came to look after her.’

Svend stared at her incredulously. What kind of a man abandoned his pregnant wife, rebellion or no? Small wonder that Lady Cille seemed reluctant to talk about him. On the other hand, at least it explained what she was doing here—though not why she’d left Redbourn so suddenly and secretly.

‘You ask a lot of questions, Norman.’ Her expression was guarded.

‘I’m simply confused. Since the death of your husband, you’ve inherited his lands, have you not?’

‘No. Leofric had a younger brother. He’s the ealdorman now.’

‘He forfeited that position when he refused to swear fealty to the King and joined the rebels. Surely you knew that?’

‘Forfeited under Norman law. I don’t have to accept it.’

‘It would be wise if you did.’ His voice was low, but the veiled threat was unmistakable. ‘In any case, you’re now mistress of one of the largest estates in England.’

She looked less than impressed. ‘What of it?’

‘You left Redbourn in something of a hurry, my lady. It’s time for you to return home.’

She froze instantly. If he’d told her Redbourn had burnt to the ground she couldn’t have looked more horrified. ‘And if I don’t wish to go?’

‘Your people are vulnerable and afraid. As the ealdorman’s widow it’s your duty to take care of them. Or did you forget that when you ran away?’

‘I told you—I came to look after my sister. I have a duty to her as well.’

‘And yet you ran away by yourself, without telling anyone where you were going. That doesn’t speak of a particularly clear conscience.’

‘How dare you? My reasons for leaving are none of your concern.’

‘You still have a duty to come back.’

‘Duty?’ She gave a brittle laugh. ‘Ironic for a Norman to be worried about Saxons!’

She whirled away but he caught her wrist, pulling her back again. ‘Even a Norman understands duty.’

‘Let me go!’

‘Forgive me.’ His tone was anything but apologetic. ‘But my orders come from the King. He was most displeased to hear that you’d left Redbourn.’

‘The Conqueror is at Redbourn?’

‘The King,’ he corrected her. ‘King William was crowned in December. But, no, he returned to Normandy in the spring. He left his half-brother Bishop Odo in charge, along with his cousin William FitzOsbern. He’s the one waiting for you at Redbourn.’

‘The King’s cousin wants to see me?’

He nodded slowly. His fingers were still wrapped around her arm, but he felt strangely reluctant to pull them away. He’d held her wrists before... The memory of her writhing beneath him flashed through his mind, heating his blood. He could feel the quickening of her pulse against his thumb and fought the urge to caress it.

‘Why?’ She looked panicked. ‘What does he want with me?’

He wishes for you to marry again.

The answer sprang to his lips, but the obvious fear in her voice made him hesitate. With his hand gripping her arm he felt suddenly, irrationally, protective. It wasn’t his place to tell her the Earl’s plans, but she was watching him, no longer defiant but frightened, asking him a question. He felt a stirring in his chest—something he hadn’t felt in a long time—as if something were shifting inside of him. Damn it all, how could such a small woman have such a powerful effect on his senses?

‘He intends for you to marry again,’ he said softly, surprising himself.

‘Marry a Norman?’

She staggered backwards, the colour draining from her face, and he dropped her wrist instantly, the protective urge evaporating.

‘That is something I wouldn’t say to FitzOsbern, my lady.’

‘But I’ve no wish to marry again! The King has no right to force me!’

Svend held his temper with an effort. Was she determined to fight him on everything? This wasn’t the way he’d intended their interview to go. He hadn’t even got to the part that was bound to provoke her more.

‘That’s no longer your choice. You’re a vassal of the King now, not a freewoman. Your people need you.’

‘They’re not my people any more—they’re his.’

‘You don’t think they’ll take comfort in having a Saxon mistress?’

‘False comfort!’

‘Perhaps, but this marriage will permit you to keep your lands. I’d have thought you’d be grateful.’

‘My lands?’ She gave a hollow, derisive laugh. ‘Is that all you Normans think about? Land?’

Svend’s patience snapped, and his voice was coolly insulting. ‘Aye. Land, money and tupping Saxon women!’

This time he didn’t even try to stop her hand. He didn’t flinch as she slapped him hard across the face, her outstretched fingers connecting violently with the side of his jaw.

There was a long silence, broken only by the crackle of wood in the fire and the sound of their combined breathing. Svend rubbed a hand over his chin. He supposed he’d deserved that. Normally he prided himself on his self-control, on not showing what he was thinking or feeling, but this woman pushed the very limits of his self-restraint. Something about her unsteadied him. She was dangerous, somehow. He’d known her for mere hours and already she was under his skin.

He looked down at her glowering face, at her slender chest heaving beneath it, and felt the sudden urge to grab her around the waist, pull her towards him and...what? His lips curved slowly. Do something that would wipe the defiant look off her face for certain.

What would she do if he kissed her? he wondered. Stab him in his sleep, most likely. Well, he could keep a guard outside his door. It might be worth it.

‘Sir?’ There was a discreet cough from the doorway.

‘Come!’

Svend beckoned to Henri, his second-in-command, relieved at the interruption. One more second and he might have done something he’d regret.

‘Are the men settled?’

‘Aye, sir. I’ve set shifts for guard duty—not including the men riding tomorrow.’

‘What happens tomorrow?’ Lady Cille eyed the new soldier suspiciously.

‘We leave for Redbourn in the morning.’ Svend met her horrified gaze squarely.

‘But Aediva cannot travel tomorrow!’

‘No... She cannot.’

‘You’re leaving her behind? After you promised she’d be safe! What kind of a man lies to a vulnerable woman?’

‘Enough!’ His temper flared again. ‘Before you offend me! We’re not abandoning her. Henri will stay with half of my men until she’s recovered. I gave my word that she and the babe would be safe, and they will be.’

He folded his arms across his chest, deliberately intimidating.

‘Now, are you satisfied? Or have you any more insults to hurl at me?’

She opened her mouth and then closed it again, as if trying to think of an argument or excuse—anything to cause a delay. ‘I... I’m satisfied.’

‘Good. I see that Saxon manners are overrated. You’re welcome.’

He turned away from her, suddenly eager to put some distance between them. She was maddening. Stubborn, insulting and ungrateful to boot! Not to mention determined to turn every conversation into an argument. She was the most infuriating woman he’d ever met!

Except one.

He pushed the thought aside and strode purposefully towards the door, Henri following like a wolf at his heels.

‘Get some rest.’ He hurled the words over his shoulder. ‘We’re leaving at dawn. I’ve no more wish to be in this situation than you, but like it or not I’m taking you home.’

‘So I’m your prisoner?’

He stopped in the doorway, his jaw clenched so tight he could feel his teeth grind together.

‘I’d rather be your escort, but if you want it that way then, yes, you’re my prisoner. I suggest you don’t try to escape. Believe me, I’ll drag you to Redbourn in chains if I have to.’

* * *

Aediva watched him go, feeling the final remnants of her old life collapsing around her.

How dared he? She marched up and down inside the empty cottage, struggling to contain her anger. The arrogance of the man! How dared he talk about her—Cille—as if she were some commodity to be passed from man to man? As if she had no mind, no heart, no choice of her own. He was an insensitive monster! Just like every other Norman!

At least she’d shown him how she felt and left a red hand-shaped patch on his cheek to prove it. There’d be a noticeable bruise there tomorrow. Whatever happened afterwards, she’d have that satisfaction at least.

So this was why the Normans had come! The truth was even worse than she’d imagined. They wanted Cille as a bride—a prize for some grasping Norman interloper. But what kind of husband would such a man be? What kind of stepfather to Leofric’s son...the son she’d promised to protect?

She clenched her hands into fists. It was cruel—barbaric! It would break Cille’s heart. She couldn’t let it happen!

But what could she do? She could hardly go to the King’s cousin and pretend to be Cille. Someone would be bound to recognise her and reveal the truth. And yet... From a distance, she and Cille were almost identical. And surely Cille’s own people would keep her secret.

She stopped dead in her tracks. Would they? Svend’s criticism of Cille was all the worse for being true. Cille had fled her home in the spring—five months after Hastings and Leofric’s death. And he was right, as the ealdorman’s widow she should have stayed—should have remained to take care of her people. Would they be angry with her for abandoning them? Would they keep such a dangerous secret to protect her?

Svend had been right about Edmund too, and the disgust had been writ plain on his face. Now she wished she’d made up a name—not reminded herself of the one man she wanted to forget. They hadn’t actually been married, but the lie hadn’t been so far-fetched. Her father had wanted it, even if Edmund himself had shown no sign of caring for anything except her dowry. Worse still, he’d been rougher than she’d expected a suitor to be. His kisses had been too demanding, and he’d pressed her for more—far more—than she’d been willing to give. For her father’s sake she’d tried to accept him, but in truth his violence had frightened her.

But he was a Saxon—part of her old life—and the thought of him still hurt, like a bruise she’d inadvertently pressed too hard. He’d abandoned her just when she’d needed him, running off to join the rebellion despite her entreaties. Let Svend draw his own conclusions about such a man. They couldn’t be any worse than her own.

A sense of isolation swept over her, leaving a hollow sensation like a gaping pit in her stomach. Since her father’s death the feeling had become all too familiar. There was so much she felt responsible for, but there was no one—not a single person—she could turn to for help. And there was no one to protect Cille and her baby either. If she didn’t, who would?

She crouched down by the fire, trying to warm the chill in her heart, trying to work out a plan. Could she pretend to be Cille? It was possible. Surely Cille’s people would support her, a Saxon, over the Norman usurpers? And the Normans themselves had never met Cille...had they?

Now that she thought of it, Cille had been strangely unforthcoming on that subject. She hadn’t even said whether she’d left Redbourn before or after the Normans had arrived. On the other hand, what did it matter? After this many months who would remember the colour of her eyes?

She rocked back on her heels, making her mind up. If this was the only way to protect her sister and nephew then she’d do it—and gladly. The Normans might have invaded her country, but she wasn’t conquered yet. If she took Cille’s place she could find a way to stop the marriage. In the meantime, who knew what might happen? The rebels might gather an army and overthrow the Conqueror, or Cille and the babe might escape. Any risk would be worth that.

She glanced towards the open doorway with a new sense of resolve. She could do it. After all, she’d already fooled Svend du Danemark. And if she could stay one step ahead of him, she had a feeling the rest would be easy.


Chapter Three (#uf0132068-111a-5ef2-9e51-cd734d9e7715)

Svend tightened the bridle on his destrier with a snap. The sun was casting a pink glow on the horizon and a dozen soldiers were mounted behind him, ready and awaiting his order to depart.

Where was she?

He looked towards the Thane’s hall, his scowl deepening from dark grey to black. He’d slept badly after their confrontation the previous night, angry at himself for losing his temper and at her for provoking it. And now she was late, after he’d told her they’d be leaving at dawn! Damn it, they should have left already!

‘Sir?’

He turned to find Henri at his shoulder. While he was in his present temper, only his battle-hardened lieutenant dared to approach.

‘We’re ready to go after the villagers.’

‘Good.’ Svend nodded with satisfaction. At least one part of the morning was going according to plan. ‘Their tracks head east. They took carts, so they can’t have gone far or fast. Bring them back. Use persuasion if you can, force if you have to, but I don’t want anyone hurt—understood?’

‘Yes, sir. And the woman?’

‘I’ll deal with her.’

Henri grinned. ‘Her new husband might not appreciate you manhandling his bride.’

‘Then he should have come himself.’

Svend tightened his knuckles instinctively. For some reason the mention of her future husband made him irrationally angry. Not that he knew who it was. FitzOsbern had been unusually taciturn on the subject.

‘I’ll see you in a few weeks. Just make sure the villagers are settled before you join us in Redbourn. I don’t want them running away again.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And, Henri? As far as anyone else is concerned they never left.’

‘Understood. There’s just one other matter, sir. The new lad—Alan—I found him in the hall an hour ago.’

‘Looting?’

‘Searching the rafters.’

Svend’s expression hardened. He didn’t give his soldiers many orders to follow, but when it came to those he did he was inflexible. No stealing, raping, brawling or looting. Most of his men had sense enough to obey. Alan obviously thought he knew better.

‘I’ll deal with it.’

Henri mounted his horse. ‘He’s still a lad...just seventeen.’

Svend didn’t answer, his mouth set in a thin, implacable line as Henri and his men thundered out of the gates. Seventeen. When he was that age he’d been in exile for three years already. Seventeen was more than old enough to learn that actions had consequences.

‘Alan!’

‘Sir?’ A young soldier came running at once.

‘You were in the hall this morning?’

‘I... Yes, sir.’ Alan flushed guiltily. ‘I was searching in case they’d hidden valuables. The King gave us the right of plunder, sir.’

‘Do you see the King now?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Have we conquered this village? Did you fight anyone for it?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Would you like to?’

The boy gulped and Svend brought his fist up quickly, knocking him to the ground with one swift, decisive blow.

‘We raid only where we conquer, we don’t steal from farmers, and under my command you follow my rules—understand?’ He turned away brusquely, shouting over his shoulder at his men. ‘Wait outside the gates! This won’t take long.’

He stormed into the hall, barely resisting the urge to bellow her name. That whole incident had been her fault too. If she’d been ready when he’d told her the boy might never have been tempted to go looting. Was she obstinate on principle or just naturally infuriating? Either way, his patience was worn out. No matter how desirable she might be, her attractions were more than outweighed by her character. Thane’s daughter, ealdorman’s widow, nobleman’s future bride—whoever she was, she was under his command now. He’d meant what he’d told her last night. He’d drag her to Redbourn in chains if he had to.

His step faltered momentarily. What would the Earl make of her? What kind of maelstrom would this Saxon wildcat unleash in the Norman court? He’d been deadly serious in his warning. FitzOsbern wouldn’t tolerate disobedience or insults. Nor forgive them either. And Lady Cille seemed the kind of woman to learn lessons the hard way.

That strange protective feeling was back and he pushed it aside irritably. He’d warned her. That was all he could do. He wasn’t responsible for her temper—only her safety until they reached Redbourn. Once they were there she could do and say as she pleased. If she insulted FitzOsbern that was her mistake and not his problem. He certainly wasn’t about to risk his hard-earned reward for a woman who made the whole Saxon army seem welcoming.

‘Shh!’

He halted mid-stride, caught off guard as she stepped out of the shadows, the babe cradled in her arms.

For half a moment he wondered if he were imagining the vision before him. With the child in her arms she looked calmer, softer, a completely different woman from the spitting wildcat of the previous day. She’d changed her clothes too. Her mud-splattered tunic had been replaced by a woodland-green gown. He ran his gaze appreciatively over the close-fitting contours of the fabric, his body reacting despite himself. She was swaying from side to side, cooing gently as she tried to soothe the grumbling child, slim hips rolling in a slow and alarmingly distracting rhythm.

He forced his body back under control. This was the second time she’d caught him by surprise in this very hall. What was the matter with him? She seemed to undermine all his defensive instincts. What was it he’d wanted to tell her? Something about his authority...

‘You almost woke him!’ She hissed through her teeth. ‘You were stamping like a whole herd of cattle!’

Svend raised an eyebrow, the vision of loveliness dissipating before his eyes. It was her, no doubt about it. That fiery glare would have given her away even if her adder’s tongue had not.

He cleared his throat deliberately loudly. ‘It’s time to go. My men are waiting.’

‘I can’t.’ She shook her head so vigorously that tendrils of hair broke free from the sides of her headdress. ‘Not yet. It’s taken me half the night to calm him. If I stop moving he’ll wake up for certain.’

Svend narrowed his gaze critically. Her face looked wan and drawn, her eyes circled with dark shadows. Had she slept at all?

‘Have you been pacing all night?’

‘No!’

Her denial came too quickly and he scowled ferociously. ‘I told you to get some rest! For pity’s sake, woman, we have a day’s ride ahead.’

‘I did rest!’ Her chin jutted upwards unconvincingly. ‘But Eadgyth needed some sleep too.’

‘Then you should have asked one of my men for help!’

‘Ask a Norman?’

Her voice dripped with scorn and he clenched his teeth, trying to restrain his temper. ‘Is it too much to hope that you’ve packed?’

‘No.’ She gestured towards a sack by the door. ‘I did it last night, if you must know.’

‘Well, that’s something.’ He scooped up the bag and untied the leather cords, ignoring her shocked intake of breath as he rummaged inside.

‘What are you doing? Those are my things!’

He bit back a smile with effort. It was quite a spectacle, watching her lose her temper and try to comfort a baby at the same time. He wouldn’t have thought such an endeavour were possible.

‘You’ll have to forgive me for searching for weapons...’ he paused meaningfully ‘...under the circumstances.’

‘I’m not a fool!’

‘I never said that you were. Now, say goodbye to your sister. We should have left an hour ago.’

‘I can’t wake her. She needs to rest.’

‘Then don’t say goodbye—let her sleep. Either way, leave the baby with the old woman and let’s go.’

He fixed her with a hard stare, challenging her to argue. She was nearly trembling with anger, every muscle in her body taut with tension, eyes sparking so brightly he could almost feel the heat. If she’d been holding anything other than a baby he was quite certain she’d have thrown it at him by now.

He swung her bag over his shoulder, deliberately relaxing his stance to present an open target.

Her eyes flashed and he found himself smiling sardonically. She was a wildcat, in truth. Surely any man would enjoy taming her—or at least trying to.

‘I need a few moments.’ Her voice was clipped with anger.

‘A few,’ he agreed, turning his back and strolling casually towards the door, not even bothering to turn for his parting shot. ‘Just be quick or I’ll come and carry you out myself.’

* * *

‘Cille, wake up!’

Aediva shook her sister’s arm urgently, wondering how much she should tell her about what had happened. The truth was impossible. She didn’t want to frighten her. And, besides, there was so little time. How could she possibly tell her everything in a few minutes?

Nervously she glanced back over her shoulder. She’d no wish to be carried anywhere over any man’s shoulder, let alone a Norman’s, but she’d believed this warrior when he had threatened to drag her outside. Something in his face told her he wasn’t a man to make threats lightly.

‘Aediva?’ Cille’s voice was groggy with sleep. ‘What’s the matter? Is the baby all right?’

‘Yes, he’s here. But I have to go.’

‘Go?’ Cille sat up in alarm. ‘What do you mean?’

Aediva perched on the edge of the bed, trying to find words to reassure her. ‘I have to go with the Normans. Not for long, but it’s important. We’ll be together again soon, I promise.’

‘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 (#uf0132068-111a-5ef2-9e51-cd734d9e7715)

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!

‘What now?’ Svend glanced back over his shoulder, his look of impatience giving way instantly to one of concern. ‘Lady Cille, what’s the matter?’

She shook her head, unable to speak, tried to gesture instead.

‘There’s something wrong with the road?’

He sounded confused and she dragged her eyes to his, trying to communicate without words.

He swung around instantly, summoning his men with a few curt orders.

‘We’ll curve through the next valley and re-join the road later. Is that better?’

She heard the words, but could hardly take in their meaning, her whole attention fixed on the track ahead. Now she was there she couldn’t drag herself away. Ghostly figures filled her imagination...the past replaying itself in the present. Where had her father fallen? She sought for the place, her gaze settling at last on a large lichen-covered boulder. There, next to that rock, was where she’d found him—too late to help, too late to do anything but grieve.

‘Lady Cille?’ Svend moved across her line of vision. ‘Come away.’

Without waiting for assent he took hold of her bridle, steering her aside as she wiped the tears from her face with her sleeve. She hadn’t even known that she was crying; the tears had seeped out of their own volition.

At last her heartbeat returned to normal and she looked around again. They’d re-joined the road at the end of the valley and were riding up into the hills, avoiding the quicker route through the marshes to the south. She understood the Normans’ reluctance to enter the low swamplands. It was too easy to get lost amongst the tall reed-beds or mired down in a muddy quagmire. Not to mention that the men of the marshes were known to be a law unto themselves, and the swamps provided the perfect setting for an ambush. Only the most inexperienced or reckless of leaders would enter such terrain lightly, and she had the strong feeling that her captor was neither.

She glanced towards him apprehensively, expecting questions, but he stayed silent, face averted as if to give her privacy.

‘You must wonder why...’

He made a dismissive gesture. ‘You don’t need to explain.’

‘No, but...’

She faltered. But what...? But she wanted to tell someone? She’d stayed strong for so long—for her people, for Cille—that she thought the words might burst out of her. No, she didn’t just want to tell someone, she had to—even a Norman. Her grief was so deep it seemed to drown out every other emotion, even hatred.

She took a deep breath. ‘My father died there.’

‘Ah...’ He was silent for a moment, as if letting her words sink in. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘He was stabbed in a skirmish with Norman soldiers last winter.’

A muscle jumped in his jaw. ‘What happened?’

‘He thought he was defending his land, but he was a farmer, not a fighter. He wouldn’t yield, so a Norman soldier killed him. It might have been you.’

‘It wasn’t.’

His tone was sharp and she felt a momentary twinge of guilt. She shouldn’t have said that—not when he was being sympathetic.

‘How many soldiers?’ He sounded angry now.

She bit her lip, wondering how much she could tell him without giving away her real identity. Cille hadn’t arrived in Etton until almost a month after their father’s death, but surely there was no way he could know that.

‘There were four of them.’

‘Renegades, then, not a garrison. Were they wearing a crest?’

‘None that I know of. Why?’

‘If there were a way to identify them it might still be possible to bring them to justice.’

‘The Earl would side with Saxons over Norman soldiers?’

‘No. But there are other means.’

She glanced at him in surprise. He looked implacable now, every inch the warrior, fierce and forbidding, as if he might truly avenge her father. She felt a flicker of hope, quickly suppressed. Words were easy, but why would a Norman knight care about one murdered Thane? Yet something in his face told her he meant it.

‘Why?’ she demanded. ‘Why would you avenge him?’

He looked at her askance. ‘Because a man shouldn’t be slain for protecting his land or his people.’

She lowered her gaze, swallowing against the lump in her throat. That pit in her stomach had opened up again, cold and empty like a wintry chasm.

‘He was a good man.’

‘I’m certain of it.’

‘We were very close. When it happened...so soon after Hastings...after everything else... I felt like the whole world had collapsed. I’d never felt so alone. And ever since...’

She bit her tongue abruptly. Why was she telling him this? Of all people, why was she pouring her heart out to her enemy? No matter how carefully she phrased it, or how sympathetic he might seem, she couldn’t risk confiding in him. One slip and she might give everything away. He was the last person in the world she should talk to.

She pursed her lips, trying to regain her composure. She couldn’t risk Cille’s safety just to ease her own pain. No matter how much it hurt, no matter how badly she needed to talk to someone, she had to bury her feelings—just as she had for the past year. Like everything else, she had to bear them alone.




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