The Mercenary's Bride

by TERRI BRISBIN

  Lord Brice turned the chair next to her bed around, straddled it and faced her. ‘Your brother fled during our attack.’ He paused then and stared at her as he answered the other questions she’d posed. ‘After he had shot you from behind…after we came in through the tunnel. Once you’d stopped bleeding—well, mostly—I brought you here so you could be more comfortable.’

  ‘How long, my lord? How long have I been unconscious?’

  ‘This is the fourth day since you were injured,’ he said, the exhaustion clear in his voice. ‘The fever hit late that same night and you have been racked with it for these three days and nights since.’ He met her gaze. ‘It broke this morn.’

  She pushed herself to sit up, but got no further than before. Even the attempt at moving her arm caused bolts of pain to shoot through her injured shoulder and down her arm. She gasped at the strength of the pain and lay back down, trying not to move it again.

  ‘And you have been here since?’ she asked.

  He shifted on the chair, stretching his arms up and across his chest. He shrugged and shook his head.

  ‘Most of the nights,’ he said. ‘Leoma has been your more constant companion and caregiver during the days.’

  ‘Leoma?’ Gillian asked. That name did not sound familiar to her. Once her old maid died, Oremund had never allowed her to have one who would gain her loyalty. He sent in whichever woman shared his bed at that moment to help her when needed. Leoma was not a name she’d heard before.

  ‘She is married now to one of my men, but she is from Taerford. She tended to your wound and your needs while I saw to my duties.’

  He stood then and walked to the small brazier in the corner. Returning with a metal cup, he placed it on the table and then helped her to sit up. It took more effort than he could know to stay upright then, for her body wanted to sink back into the depths of the rope-strung bed and not do such a foolish thing again. When she could finally sit without his help, he brought the cup to her mouth.

  ‘Some beef broth to strengthen you,’ he said, tilting the cup. ‘Leoma said I should make you drink it if you woke.’

  She took several sips from the cup and felt the strong, warm broth fill her belly with its flavour and heat. ‘And where have you slept?’ she asked.

  ‘Here.’ He pointed to the chair.

  She knew it for the lie it was as soon as he’d said it—his appearance told her the truth. He’d not slept since she’d been injured. She allowed him to feed her several more times before she waved the rest off with a shake of her head.

  ‘What time of day is it, my lord?’

  He walked to the window in the wall and pulled the leather covering. Flashes of lightning filled the chamber now and she could hear a pelting rain falling. Very little light other than the storm entered. ‘Just past nightfall,’ he said, ‘but ’tis difficult to tell with the way the storm has been raging these last three days.’

  Gillian was convinced that he would not leave her side, so she ordered him to. ‘You must get some rest, my lord, or you will be in no condition to defend your keep when Oremund returns.’

  He stared at her, surprised, she could see, by her words. He shook his head. ‘He is gone, Gillian. There is no trace of him for miles. My men have searched.’

  ‘Gone for now. He will return when he has men enough to force you from this place. Doubt it not, my lord,’ she said. If he did not realise it, it would not be for lack of her trying. ‘’Tis not in his manner to let go of something he wants.’

  Then, as suddenly as she’d awoken, her body began to sink towards sleep. She found it difficult to keep her eyes open or to frame a logical argument with him. And harder still not to reveal the true reason for Oremund’s obsession with her.

  ‘Let me help you,’ he said before she could ask for it. ‘You are not well and will need more time to recover.’

  Lord Brice assisted her in sliding down with as little help from her bad arm as possible. If she allowed him to hold it immobile and followed his instructions, her arm and shoulder, indeed her whole body, did not hurt as much. When he would have moved away, she clutched at his hand, not allowing him to.

  ‘Please, my lord,’ she whispered, now forcing the words out. ‘See to your needs and get some rest,’ she urged. Her hand slipped from his and she fell back against the pillows that supported her. ‘Please.’

  Whether he followed her advice, she knew not, though he was gone when she woke in the night. A candle left burning showed her the chamber was empty, with Ernaut standing next to her open door.

  The next thing she knew it was morning and Leoma busied herself with some mending, sitting in the same chair where Brice had sat. The sun’s light brightened the room once the leather coverings were tied back and Gillian found herself ready to sit for longer periods and eat and drink more.

  A few days later, she could get out of bed with little help and was able to put her syrce and cyrtel on over the bandages. Although her husband always visited her, he never stayed for longer than a few minutes and never spoke on matters of importance. As she’d grown stronger, her mind had filled with many questions for him, but he did not remain long enough for her to ask. Any attempts to get his attention failed. Anytime she tried to leave, both Leoma and Ernaut stopped her.

  Worse, no one would give her any details about the battle and the number of deaths. No one would tell her who remained behind when her brother left or who followed him. And no one would tell her what plans Lord Brice was making for defence against her brother’s return.

  Finally, after a sennight had passed and she felt ready to snap angrily at anyone who entered her room, a sure sign she was well enough to leave it, Gillian took advantage of Leoma’s absence to use the other way out of the keep that no one knew about. If no one would speak to her about Thaxted and its people, she would find out for herself.

  Chapter Eleven

  Gillian discovered quickly that she was not as recovered as she first thought—it took her almost an hour to get down the small staircase cut into the stone wall. With her injured shoulder and arm hanging in a sling, making it down the stairs was difficult at best. Then, when she finally reached the bottom, she needed time to catch her breath before even trying to open the disguised metal door installed to keep the entrance hidden. Peeking out into the blacksmith’s hut, she crept out only when she saw it was empty.

  Haefen, the smith, was not working there. He was one of few men she felt safe around, for his wife was her aunt and he was too valuable in time of war for Oremund to exile. He was the reason her father cut the secret tunnel from her room to end here—Haefen was big and strong and could protect her and her mother and see them to safety if need be. Though his fire was burning there, she saw no sign of him now.

  Oh, dear God! Had Lord Brice’s men killed him when they attacked through the tunnel? She stepped out of the shadows and searched for him. He was the only close relative she had, other than Oremund, and she feared that in trying to save lives, she’d cost him his. Gillian walked to the open side of the hut and looked out in the yard to see if he was there.

  Although there was no sign of Haefen, the yard was filled with activity. Men carrying large stones to rebuild parts of the wall. Men cutting felled trees into planks, and others clearly following the orders of Lord Brice’s men. She saw neither Haefen nor Lord Brice. Walking along the edge of the buildings, she watched as those inside the wall repaired and built anew. None of Thaxted’s people seemed threatened or in danger and they worked alongside the Norman and Breton invaders. Their sullen expressions would have earned a thrashing from Oremund’s men, but these new conquerors took no notice, or took no action against them.

  Gillian managed to make her way unseen to the place where they kept their horses. A large section of the yard had been fenced in and that was where she finally found Haefen working. Crossing to the fence, she called out to him. He looked well and Gillian felt tears burn in her eyes at the joy of finding him alive.

  ‘Girl,’ he said,
reaching over the fence to pull her into his arms. As he held her and rocked her, she wanted to scream from the pain, but the comfort of his embrace felt too good at this moment.

  ‘Uncle,’ she whispered. ‘I am glad you are alive. I feared…I feared…you were dead.’ But she was not strong enough yet to admit it had been her words that revealed the secret entrance to the keep to their enemies. He released her and she clutched his hand for support.

  ‘Nay—’ he shook his head at her concern ‘—I heard your brother’s plans. I saw this lord’s army and knew he would take Thaxted.’ He leaned back and examined her from head to toe. ‘Your brother said you were dead. Told us he was our only protection against these Normans.’ Smiling, he shook his head. ‘Should’ve known you were too ornery to die.’

  The tears did escape now and she wiped them away with a quick rub of her hand. ‘What of the others? How many did Thaxted lose?’

  ‘Not many. Most of those that died were Oremund’s soldiers. Oremund killed a few who tried to escape just after you disappeared. Most of the rest are here, somewhere, waiting to see who ends up as lord.’

  Gillian nodded, knowing they both understood that this was not over yet. Before she could ask another question, her uncle interrupted. ‘Do you trust this Norman?’

  ‘I am not sure,’ she said. Thinking about his actions and hers, she realised that in many ways she did. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s coming this way and looks like he wants to kill you,’ her uncle replied as he climbed over the fence and positioned himself in front of her. ‘You seem to get that reaction from many people lately.’

  His comment reflected the truth. She did seem to irritate many people, but mostly those who tried to control her. She peeked around Haefen, wincing as the sounds of Brice’s angry words reached her. He was back to cursing her loudly and it did not bode well for her or her uncle. Gillian did not fear that he would harm her, but she’d not seen him react to those who challenged him yet. Her uncle could really be the one in danger and she tried to move around him before her husband reached them.

  It was clear to Brice as spied her from the guard tower that he would have to tie her to the bed, much as his men had tied her in the tent, if he expected her to remain where he had left her. Looking around the yard as he chased her down, he saw no sign of Ernaut or Leoma, the two who were supposed to be with her anytime he could not be. He tore down the steps of the tower and was almost halfway across the yard when he realised what he was doing and slowed his pace. Lucais, whom he’d left in mid-sentence, followed closely behind and they were joined by several others before he reached the place serving as a temporary area for the horses.

  Lucais’s gruff laugh every time Brice cursed did not ease his anger, especially not when he watched the burly blacksmith take Gillian in his arms. Nor when his wife seemed quite content to be held. By another man. In public. Brice might have drawn his sword then, but he could not remember until it was in his hand before him. The man recognised the danger, for he stepped in front of Gillian as though to protect her.

  And, damn his wife, she stepped back in front of the man when she saw Brice’s approach and heard his swearing. In spite of barely being able to stand on her own, in spite of her injury that had yet to heal, in spite of the sword that threatened, she stood her ground. He stopped a few paces before her and lowered his sword.

  ‘Do you never stay where you are put, lady?’ he asked, not really wanting an answer. When she began to offer one, he glared at her.

  Though it pleased him to see her on her feet, looking better than she had since her injury, from the ghost-pale colour of her cheeks and her laboured breathing, she was not strong enough yet to be traipsing around the yard. Alone. Embracing men.

  ‘Her late father often lamented of the same thing, my lord,’ the man answered for her.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked, leaving off what he truly wanted to ask: who are you that you can be so familiar with my wife? He nodded at the man who had still not released his hold on Gillian’s waist.

  ‘My lord,’ she said. ‘This is my uncle, Haefen.’

  He narrowed his gaze at the man he knew only as the blacksmith of Thaxted. ‘I thought you had no family left, lady. Has one suddenly sprung to life, then?’ Suspicion flooded him as he could see no resemblance at all between the two. Some other connection, then?

  ‘I married her aunt, my lord. We are not related by blood.’

  The man did not offer a direct challenge, for he was only a blacksmith and Brice was an experienced knight and now lord here and the man could never prevail, but he did not bow and scrape as many did before those supposedly noble born.

  ‘What is your business with him, lady, when you should still be abed and recovering?’ Now that he saw the link between them, most of the threat was gone. Still, the first person to whom she ran was this man, and it did not sit right with Brice.

  ‘I wanted only to make certain he lived,’ she said, her voice weakening and her face growing paler by the moment.

  ‘Return to your chambers and we will discuss this later,’ he ordered.

  ‘I cannot, my lord,’ she said.

  Her words presented not a challenge to his orders, but an explanation, one Brice comprehended only a moment before she became ghostly pale and fainted. Only her uncle’s grip on her waist kept her from landing face down in the dirt. Sheathing his sword, Brice relieved the man of his burden and lifted her into his arms, having a care for her bound shoulder.

  ‘Speak to me in the keep,’ he ordered Haefen as he walked away.

  It took only minutes to carry her back to her chambers and see her safe in her bed. Ernaut was startled when he saw them approach, probably believing the lady was within. Then Brice saw the moment that the young man realised he’d failed in his duty. Brice could not excuse it, but he could not punish something he’d missed, as well.

  ‘My lord,’ Ernaut began, opening the door for him and waiting until he laid Gillian on the bed there. Brice touched the back of his hand to her cheek. Thank the Almighty, there was no sign of fever returning.

  ‘We will sort this out later, Ernaut. Where is Leoma?’

  The very person approached after Brice placed a blanket over Gillian and waved Ernaut out to the corridor. She carried a tray of food, probably the very task that his wife sent her on while planning her escape. Since both were loyal to him, he suspected no subterfuge, but they both needed to understand the wilful and intelligent foe they faced in keeping her safe, even from herself.

  ‘I found her in the yard. Since she did not sprout wings and fly there and since I know Ernaut did not leave his post unattended, there must be another way out hidden in her chambers.’

  The two exchanged glances and then nodded to him.

  ‘See to her, Leoma. I do not think she will have the strength to run again—’ the irony of the situation was clear to him ‘—but I do not want her to endanger herself by trying to.’

  Suspecting that another or more secret entrances under the walls or through them existed, Brice and his men had searched the keep room by room for any sign of them. Including her chamber. And found nothing. Walking back down to the main floor, he found the blacksmith waiting for him, guarded by Lucais. Brice motioned him to follow and led him to a table and benches off to one side where he usually met with his commanders.

  He ordered some ale to be brought to them and watched as the serving woman dawdled in getting it. He shook his head, tempted to lose his temper at the slovenly behaviour of the servants, both in the keep and out. Any order was met with a stare and an unseemly delay in carrying it out. Glances and gazes were either empty or filled with malice, and there were no attempts to hide either from him or his men. He’d caught several of his men striking out at such displays, but it was not in his nature to do so.

  Or it was not before.

  Pouring ale into a metal cup and handing it to the blacksmith who remained standing, Brice dismissed Lucais back to his duties and drank some of the al
e.

  He knew that Oremund had left spies behind, servants loyal to him, in place to report back on any number of things—numbers of fighting men, stores of food and supplies. Much like the resistance that Giles had faced in Taerford, he must find them out and give them reasons to pledge their loyalty to him.

  And he would begin his search with Haefen.

  ‘Are you freeman or serf, Haefen?’ he asked, motioning for the man to sit.

  ‘I am free, like the miller and the chandler and the brewer.’ He declined the invitation to sit.

  ‘How long have you been here in Thaxted?’

  ‘Born and raised here, my lord. Like most of us,’ he replied, though Brice could almost hear the pause in the answer. So he asked the obvious question.

  ‘And Lord Oremund? How long has he lived here?’ Brice sipped his ale now, never taking his eyes off Gillian’s uncle.

  ‘He came here just after their father died at Stamford Bridge in September last.’

  ‘So recent?’ he asked. Oremund behaved as though he’d lived here from his birth when they’d parleyed that morning. ‘Where did he live before?’

  ‘Lord Eoforwic gave control of one of his larger estates to young Lord Oremund to command a few years ago.’

  ‘Why did Oremund not obey his king’s call to arms and fight at Hastings?’

  ‘I do not think I am the right man to answer all these questions, my lord,’ Haefen protested.

  ‘But you are a freeman, Haefen. Able to come and go and negotiate your pay and conditions. A much better man to ask than a serf who is completely beholden to his lord and might never know other than his lord’s opinion in matters. Indeed, most serfs would not even know of the world outside their gates. A freeman has a wider view of things.’

  For a moment, Brice thought this freeman might leave and not answer, but after a drawn-out moment, he did.

  ‘It was agreed that Lord Oremund and Raedan would trail behind and guard the back of King Harold’s army.’