The Prize

by Julie Garwood

  Royce let out a long sigh, then took command again.

  He immediately changed tactics to prevent them from losing the ground they’d already secured. He pulled ten of his most reliable soldiers away from the wall and went with them to the small rise above the holding. With one of his own arrows he killed a Saxon soldier who was standing on top of the wall before his men had even had time to secure their own sightings. Then he allowed them to take over the task. In little time at all, the Saxon walls were once again unprotected.

  Five of Royce’s men climbed the walls and cut the ropes to the bridge, lowering it. God help him, he’d actually had to remind one of the eager volunteers to take his sword with him.

  Royce rode first across the wooden planks of the drawbridge, his sword drawn, though there really wasn’t any need. Both the lower bailey and the upper one were completely deserted.

  They made a thorough search of the huts and outer buildings and discovered not a single Saxon soldier. It became clear to Royce that the enemy had left their holding by a secret passage. Royce ordered half his men to search the walls for such an opening. He would seal it the minute they located it.

  The Normans secured the holding in William’s name a few minutes later when they hoisted the duke of Normandy’s banner, displaying his magnificent colors, onto the pole atop the wall. The castle now belonged to the Normans.

  Yet Royce had completed only half of his duties. He still had to collect the prize and take her to London.

  Aye, it was time to capture Lady Nicholaa.

  A search of the living quarters of the keep produced a handful of servants, who were dragged outside and pushed into a tight circle in the courtyard.

  Ingelram, as tall as Royce was, though he lacked the bulk and battle scars, held one Saxon servant by the back of his tunic. The servant was an elderly man with thin, graying hair and puckered skin.

  Royce hadn’t had time to dismount before Ingelram blurted out, “This one’s the steward, Baron. His name’s Hacon. He’s the one who told Gregory all about the family.”

  “I didn’t talk to any Normans,” Hacon protested. “I don’t even know anyone named Gregory. God strike me dead if that ain’t the truth,” he added boldly.

  The “faithful” servant was lying, and he was feeling quite proud of himself for possessing such courage in the face of dire circumstances. The old man still hadn’t looked up at the Norman leader, though, but kept his attention on the overly eager blond knight who was trying to tear his tunic off his back.

  “Aye, you did talk to Gregory,” Ingelram countered. “He was the first knight to take on the challenge of securing this holding and capturing the prize. It won’t do you any good to lie, old man.”

  “He be the one who left with the arrow in his backside?” Hacon asked.

  Ingelram glared at the servant for mentioning Gregory’s humiliation. He forced Hacon to turn around. The servant’s breath caught in the back of his throat when he finally looked up at the Norman leader. He had to tilt his head all the way back in order to get a decent look at the giant, who was covered in leather and steel links. Hacon squinted against the streamers of sunlight that reflected off the armor and into his eyes. Neither the warrior nor his magnificent black stallion moved, and for a brief minute, the steward imagined that he was looking at a grand statue made of stone.

  Hacon held on to his composure until the Norman removed his helmet.

  He almost lost his supper then and there. The barbarian terrified him. Hacon felt sick with the need to cry out for mercy. The look in the Norman’s cold gray eyes was frigid with determination, and Hacon was sure he was about to die. Yes, he’ll kill me, Hacon thought. He said a quick Pater Noster. It would be an honorable death, he decided, because he was determined to help his gentle mistress until the very end. Surely God would welcome him to heaven for protecting an innocent.

  Royce stared down at the trembling servant a long while. Then he tossed his helmet to his waiting squire, dismounted, and handed the reins to a soldier. The stallion reared up, but one hard command from his master stopped his budding tantrum.

  Hacon’s knees went limp. He fell to the ground. Ingelram reached down and hauled him back up to his feet. “One of the twins is inside the keep, abovestairs, Baron,” Ingelram announced. “She prays in the chapel.”

  Hacon took a deep breath, then blurted out, “The church was burned to the ground when last we were under siege.” His voice sounded like a strangled whisper. “As soon as Sister Danielle arrived from the abbey, she ordered the altar moved to one of the chambers inside the keep.”

  “Danielle’s the nun,” Ingelram volunteered. “It just as we heard, Baron. They’re twins, they are. One’s a saint, bent on serving the world, and the other’s a sinner, bent on giving us trouble.”

  Royce still hadn’t said a word. He continued to stare down at the servant. Hacon couldn’t look up into the leader’s eyes very long. He turned his gaze to the ground, clasped his hands together, and whispered, “Sister Danielle’s been caught in this war betwixt the Saxons and the Normans. She’s an innocent and wishes only to return to the abbey.”

  “I want the other one.”

  The baron’s voice was soft, chilling. Hacon’s stomach lurched again.

  “He’s wanting the other twin,” Ingelram shouted. He started to say more, then caught his baron’s hard stare and decided to close his mouth instead.

  “The other twin’s name is Nicholaa,” Hacon said. He took another deep breath before adding, “She left, Baron.”

  Royce didn’t show any reaction to this news. Ingelram, on the other hand, couldn’t contain his disappointment. “How could she have left?” he demanded in another shout as he shoved the old man back to his knees.

  “There are many secret passages built into the thick walls of the keep,” Hacon confessed. “Didn’t you notice there weren’t any Saxon soldiers here when you crossed over the drawbridge? Mistress Nicholaa left with her brother’s men near to an hour past.”

  Ingelram bellowed in frustration. In a bid to ease his anger, he shoved the servant again.

  Royce took a step forward, his stare directed at his vassal. “You do not show me your strength when you mistreat a defenseless old man, Ingelram, nor do you show me your ability to control your enthusiasm when you interfere with my questioning.”

  The vassal was properly humiliated. He bowed his head to his baron, then helped the Saxon to his feet.

  Royce waited until the young soldier had taken a step away from the servant. He then looked at Hacon again. “How long have you served this household?”

  “Near to twenty years now,” Hacon answered. There was pride in his voice when he added, “I’ve always been treated fair, Baron. They made me feel as important as one of their own.”

  “Yet after twenty years of fair treatment you betray your mistresses now?” He shook his head in disgust. “You won’t give me your pledge of loyalty, Hacon, for your word isn’t trustworthy.”

  Royce didn’t waste another minute on the steward. His stride was determined as he made his way to the doors of the keep. He pushed his eager men out of his path and went inside.

  Hacon was motioned into the cluster of servants and left to worry about his fate when Ingelram rushed after his lord.

  Royce was methodical in his search. The first floor of the keep was cluttered with rubble. Litter covered the old rushes. The long table near the far corner had been overturned, and most of the stools had been destroyed.

  The staircase leading to the chambers abovestairs was still intact, though just barely. The wooden steps were slippery with water dripping down from the walls. It was a dangerously narrow climb. Most of the banister had been torn away and dangled over the side, and if a man lost his footing, there was nothing to prevent him from falling.

  The landing on the second level was just as pitiful. Wind howled through a gaping man-sized hole in the center of the far wall. The air was bitter from the cold winter wind blowing in from ou
tside. A long, dark corridor led away from the head of the stairs.

  As soon as Royce reached the landing, Ingelram rushed ahead of him and awkwardly drew his sword. The vassal obviously meant to protect his lord. The floorboards were just as wet and slippery as the steps, however. Ingelram lost both his sword and his balance and went flying toward the gaping hole.

  Royce caught him by the nape of the neck and sent him flying in the opposite direction. The vassal landed with a thud against the inside wall, shook himself like a wet dog to rid himself of the shivers, then picked up his sword and went chasing after his lord again.

  Royce shook his head in exasperation at his inept vassal’s puny attempt to protect him. He didn’t bother to draw his own sword as he started down the hallway. When he reached the first chamber and found the door barred against him, he simply kicked it open, ducked under the low lintel, and went inside.

  The room was a bedchamber in which six candles were burning. It was unoccupied save for a serving girl who cowered in a corner.

  “Who resides in this chamber?” Royce demanded.

  “Mistress Nicholaa,” came the whispered reply.

  Royce took his time studying the room. He was mildly surprised at how Spartan and orderly the chamber was. He didn’t realize women could live without a clutter of possessions surrounding them. His experience was limited to his three sisters, of course, but that was quite enough to allow him to draw such a conclusion. Still, Lady Nicholaa’s room didn’t have a bit of clutter. A large bed stood against one wall, its burgundy draperies tied back. The hearth was on the opposite wall. A single low-fashioned chest made of fine, burnish red wood stood in a corner.

  There wasn’t a single article of clothing hanging from the hooks to give Royce any idea of the woman’s size. He turned to leave the chamber, but found his path blocked by his vassal. A glare quickly removed the obstacle.

  The second door was also barred from inside. Royce was about to kick it out of his way when he heard the sound of the latch being removed.

  The door was opened by a young serving girl. Freckles and fear covered her face. She tried to curtsy to him but only half completed the formal greeting when she got a true look at his face. She let out a cry and went running across the large chamber.

  The room was alight with candles. A wooden altar covered with a white cloth stood in front of the hearth. On the floor in front of the altar were several leather-padded kneelers.

  He saw the nun at once. She was kneeling, her head bowed in prayer, her hands folded below the cross she wore on a thin leather thong around her neck.

  She was dressed in white, from the long veil covering her hair to her white shoes. Royce stood inside the doorway and waited for her to acknowledge him. Because there was no chalice on the altar, he didn’t genuflect.

  The serving girl timidly touched the nun’s slender shoulder, bent down, and whispered in her ear. “Sister Danielle, the Norman leader has arrived. Do we surrender now?”

  That question seemed so ridiculous that Royce almost smiled. He motioned to Ingelram to replace his sword, then walked farther into the room. Two servants stood together near the fur-covered window across the room. One held a baby in her arms. The infant was diligently chewing on his fists.

  Royce’s attention returned to the nun. He could only see her profile from his position. She finally made the sign of the cross, a signal her prayers were finished, then gracefully gained her feet. As soon as she stood up, the baby let out a lusty cry and reached out to her.

  The nun motioned the dark-haired servant forward and took the baby into her arms. She kissed the top of his head and turned to walk toward Royce.

  He still hadn’t gotten a good look at her face because she kept her head bowed, but he found himself pleasantly affected by her gentle manners and her whisper-soft voice as she crooned to the baby. The infant’s head was covered with a sprinkling of white-blond hair that literally stood up on end, giving him a comical look. The baby cuddled contentedly against the nun and continued to suckle on his fists. He made loud, slurping sounds, interrupted only by an occasional yawn.

  Danielle stopped when she was just a foot or two away from Royce. The top of her head only reached his shoulders, and he was thinking to himself how very fragile and vulnerable she appeared to be.

  Then she lifted her gaze and stared into his eyes, and he couldn’t seem to think at all.

  She was exquisite. God’s truth, she had the face of an angel. Her skin was flawless. Her eyes fascinated him. They were the most appealing shade of blue. Royce imagined that he was looking at a goddess who’d come to earth just to tantalize him. Her light brown eyebrows were perfectly sculptured into soft arches, her nose was wonderfully straight, and her mouth was full, rosy, and damned appealing.

  Royce found himself physically reacting to the woman and was immediately disgusted with himself. His sudden lack of discipline was appalling to him. The indrawn breath he heard told him Ingelram was experiencing the same reaction to the beautiful woman. Royce turned to glare at his vassal before looking at the nun again.

  Danielle was a bride of the sacred church, for God’s sake, and not booty to be lusted after. Like his overlord, William of Normandy, Royce honored the church and protected the clergy whenever possible.

  He let out a long sigh. “Who does this child belong to?” he asked in an attempt to regain his unholy thoughts about the woman.

  “The baby belongs to Clarise,” she answered in a husky voice he found incredibly arousing. She motioned to the dark-haired servant in the shadows. The woman immediately took a step forward. “Clarise has been a faithful servant for many years. Her son’s name is Ulric.”

  She looked down at the infant and saw that he was gnawing on her cross. She removed it before looking back up at Royce.

  They stared at each other a long silent minute. She began to rub Ulric’s shoulders in a circular motion, but kept her gaze fully directed on Royce.

  She showed absolutely no fear in her expression, and she’d given the long sickle-shaped scar on his cheek little notice. Royce was a bit unsettled by that—he was used to quite a different reaction when women first saw his face. The disfigurement didn’t seem to bother the nun, though. That pleased him considerably.

  “Ulric’s eyes are the same color as yours,” Royce remarked.

  That wasn’t exactly true, he realized. The baby’s eyes were a pretty blue. Danielle’s were beautiful.

  “Many Saxons have blue eyes,” she replied. “Ulric will be eight months old in less than a week. Will he live that long, Norman?”

  Because she asked the question in such a gentle, undemanding voice, Royce didn’t take offense. “We Normans don’t kill innocent children,” he replied.

  She nodded, then honored him with a smile. His heart started pounding in reaction. She had an enchanting dimple in her cheek, and, Lord, how her eyes could bewitch him. They weren’t blue, he decided. They were violet, the identical shade of the fragile flower he’d once seen.

  He really needed to get hold of his thoughts, he told himself. He was acting like a besotted squire. He was feeling just as awkward, too.

  Royce was too old for such feelings. “How is it you’ve learned to speak our language so well?” he asked. His voice had gone hoarse.

  She didn’t seem to notice. “One of my brothers went with Harold, our Saxon king, to Normandy six years ago,” she answered. “When he returned, he insisted we all conquer this language.”

  Ingelram moved to stand next to his baron. “Does your twin sister look like you?” he blurted out.

  The nun turned to look at the soldier. She seemed to be taking his measure. Her stare was intense, unwavering. Ingelram, Royce noticed, turned bright red under her close scrutiny and couldn’t hold her gaze long.

  “Nicholaa and I are very much alike in appearance,” she finally answered. “Most people cannot tell us apart. Our dispositions, however, are vastly different. I’ve an accepting nature, but my sister certainly doesn’
t. She has vowed to die before surrendering to England’s invaders. Nicholaa believes it’s only a matter of time before you Normans give up and go back home. ’Tis the truth, I fear for my sister’s safety.”

  “Do you know where Lady Nicholaa went?” Ingelram asked. “My baron has need to know.”

  “Yes,” she answered. She kept her gaze on the vassal. “If your baron will give me his assurance that no harm will come to my sister, I’ll tell you her destination.”

  Ingelram let out a loud snort. “We Normans don’t kill women. We tame them.”

  Royce felt like tossing his vassal out the doorway when he heard that arrogant boast. He noticed the nun didn’t much care for the remark, either. Her expression turned mutinous, though only for a fleeting second. The flash of anger was quickly gone, too, replaced by a look of serenity.

  His guard was suddenly up, and though he couldn’t give a reason for his suspicions, he knew something was amiss.

  “No harm will come to your sister,” Royce said.

  She looked relieved. Royce decided then her anger had been a reaction to her fear for her sister.

  “Aye,” Ingelram interjected with great enthusiasm. “Nicholaa is the king’s prize.”

  “The king’s prize?”

  She was having difficulty hiding her anger now. Her face became flushed. Her voice, however, remained calm. “I don’t understand what you mean. King Harold is dead.”

  “Your Saxon king is dead,” Ingelram explained, “but duke William of Normandy is on his way to London even now and will soon be anointed king of all England. We have orders to take Nicholaa to London as soon as possible.”

  “For what purpose?” she asked.

  “Your sister is the king’s prize. He intends to award her to a noble knight.” Ingelram’s voice was filled with pride when he added, “That is an honor.”

  She shook her head. “You’ve still to explain why my sister is to become the king’s prize,” she whispered. “How would your William even know about Nicholaa?”