by Sarah Hegger
“You must accept this,” he whispered against her hair. “You must accept this marriage.” Roger gently disengaged her hands from his tunic and rose to his feet. “I must go. ‘Tis not safe for me to tarry.”
She ached for him to still hold her, but he was already stepping away from her.
“You take care of her.” Roger’s jaw clenched as he turned to address the silent knight. “On your honour, you take care of my Nell.”
The man clasped her uncle by the arm. Both men held the grasp for a moment before Roger nodded. He cleared his throat noisily and hesitated. The price of what he must do was writ clear across his face.
Pressure in her chest built until it threatened to shatter her heart. He couldn’t leave like this. She leapt from her bed, tumbling forward.
Strong hands steadied her, his touch burning through the thin fabric of her shift.
Helena shook him off. She couldn’t bear to look at him.
Her feet flew across the chamber. Her uncle turned and caught her to him. Helena clung, trying to take all of him in—the smell of horses and leather, the gruff burr of his voice, the scratchy wool of his tunic beneath her cheek. He had a small rent on his sleeve. Her heart squeezed into a tight ball. Roger was forever rough with his garments.
She tightened her arms. It didn’t seem possible that he would go and take it all with him. Since the day she and her sister, Bess, were orphaned, Roger had been their shelter against the world.
“Nell, please.”
“I love you,” she sobbed, burying her face against his tunic.
“And I you.” His voice shook as he stirred in her embrace. “God be with you.”
He pried her arms from about his middle and stepped back.
The breeze through the casement chilled her skin and she shivered. The cold started at her feet and crept over her limbs until she could barely contain her trembling. When Roger left she would be alone, abandoned.
Helplessness clawed at her chest as her uncle strode to the casement and handed the rope to Sir Guy.
She wanted to yank it from his hands. Roger’s face seemed lined with the hurt he would not voice. Helena’s arms trembled with the need to reach for him. Tears blurred her sight as Sir Guy wound a rope around the post of her bed and then about his chest. She scrubbed her wet cheeks impatiently.
Sir Guy braced his stance and nodded to Roger. Her mind screamed in protest as her uncle glanced up at her one last time.
“All will be well,” he whispered, then slipped over the edge of the casement.
Helena ran to the casement. There. Roger’s fleeting shadow was nigh invisible against the grey stone of the keep as he dropped swiftly toward the ground. He made the bottom. The rope grew slack where it lay on the casement.
And Roger was gone.
Behind her, his breathing was hard from the effort, a harsh reminder of his unwelcome intrusion into her life.
Helena turned to glare at him. She hated his presence in her chamber. It was horribly wrong that Roger must flee, but this stranger was still here.
He paused in coiling the rope for a moment to look at her.
“You are not my husband.”
He resumed his work on the rope. The silence was unbearable. Her heart pressed against her ribs, a dull ache.
“Do you speak?” she demanded. She would never let him take her uncle’s place and she wanted him to know it.
“If I must.”
“Oh, you must.” Her laughter jangled harshly in the silence. “I will never accept you as my husband.”
He dropped the rope to the floor at his feet, his expression harsh. The air about him seemed alive with contained power.
She wanted to hurl herself recklessly at his strength. Only then would she not feel so terribly lost and alone. She must fight.
“I heard you.” He folded his arms over his chest; muscle swelled beneath his light tunic.
The first stirrings of caution whispered in the back of Helena’s mind. “And?” she snapped.
“It matters not. We are wed.”
“I suppose you did it for the earldom,” she sneered, aiming to penetrate the calm surrounding him.
“Aye.” He nodded as if the answer were self-evident.
“You are truthful, at least.” She could see him clearly now. The light from the open casement fell across his face.
Her husband. Her uncle had given her safekeeping, her future, into the hands of this man. The ‘Scourge of Faringdon.’
The name fit, for he was a large man with broad shoulders blocking the rest of the room from view. In the scant light his face was all rough-hewn angles and hard planes. His pale eyes seemed colder than the stone at her feet. Helena shivered suddenly.
“So.” She tugged the sides of her robe closer together. “We are at an impasse.”
“Nay, my lady,” he replied with that infuriating calm. “Now we must open the gates.”
“Must we?” she taunted. Why did he not challenge her? She wanted him to demand she do his bidding so she could fling it back in his teeth.
“You do not speak much, do you?” she prodded.
He moved suddenly and Helena jumped. It was as if a tree had suddenly sprung to life.
He motioned for her to precede him. “Gates?” he reminded. His rough voice was more likely accustomed to yelling commands across a battle-strewn field, urging his men forward to murder and mayhem.
Helena raised her chin. “And why must I open the gates?”
“My men are outside.”
It was so absurd that she laughed. “I am not letting your men into my keep.” This game could be equally well played by two.
He strode toward her. She stepped back. Her foot stowed in the carpeting and she nearly lost her balance.
“My keep,” he rasped. “And my men. Open the gates.”
Her heart pounded so loudly she could barely speak.
He gripped her arm firmly, but not hard enough to be painful. She tested its strength and found it secure. Her anger grew. This was not his keep. Lystanwold was hers. This mockery of a marriage changed nothing. Mutely, she held her ground.
He stepped closer until she could feel the heat from his body. “Be you willing or not, those gates are opening.”
“Do you plan to force me?”
“If I must.”
The silence stretched between them. His steely glare seemed to bore a hole right through her head.
“Lady?” he warned softly, an indication his patience wore thin.
“How do I know I can trust you?” she flung at him. “You could have deceived my uncle into trusting you and when I open the gates, your men will run havoc through my keep and her people.”
He frowned as if she had just said something so stupid, it pained him to consider it.
“You would not be the first to come here with false promises spilling from your lips.” Helena’s fingers curled into her palms. “How do I know you will not kill us all?”
“You do not,” he rumbled. “You have my word only.”
“The word of a hireling sword?”
His face held stern, unyielding. “Gates,” he insisted.
He was tall. She barely reached one powerful shoulder. It made her feel tiny by comparison. She was tiny by comparison. Her courage abruptly wilted. It made no difference what she believed or what she wanted. He could snap her in two, right this instant, before anyone in the keep was any the wiser.
“If you force me, I will scream for help. My men will cut you down before you can rouse any noise.”
“They will try,” he responded, not in the least concerned by her threat.
“You are not that fearsome.” Helena tugged at his grip, but he held her firm, battering her resistance with
his quiet certainty.
Her husband. Sweet Jesu.
Her breath stuck in her chest. Her mind spun in ever increasing circles. Do. Not. Panic. Think, Helena, think.
“I will not harm you,” he said. “Do not be afeared.”
“I’m not afeared.”
He raised his brow, a silent mockery of her boast.
Her shoulders slumped. She was beaten. If she didn’t open those gates, there would be blood, and on her hands.
“Open the gates,” he repeated.
“I do this under duress,” she hissed at him. She was vanquished for now, but she would fight again.
Chapter 3
Sir Guy had stayed on her heels like a great, bristling mastiff. It was impossible for Helena to think, to plan, with that man constantly underfoot. Even Bridget, her old nurse, helped her to dress in uncharacteristic silence.
He had shadowed her to her chamber door, ignoring the hard stares of her two guards. He was there, silent and forbidding, as she gave the instruction to Sir Ewayne to open the gates. He loomed beside her as Bridget trotted toward them, her mouth agape.
Finally, Helena was granted a reprieve as Bridget bustled her into her chamber to change, shutting the door of the solar firmly behind them. Outside, Helena could almost sense the news spreading like a plague. Willie, her page, fair to bursting with his knowledge, would tell all as he scurried around the keep. Helena would need to address her people, but she had no words for them. She could barely make sense of it herself.
Colin. Oh, dear Lord. Colin would need to hear it from her. How to do so with her unwelcome shadow?
“Courage, Nell.” Bridget gave her shoulder a pat to let her know she had finished.
Helena smoothed her hands over her bliaut. There was nothing to be gained from cowering in her chamber. Snapping her spine straight, she opened the door to her solar.
As she dreaded, Sir Guy was there. He straightened from leaning against the wall and gave her a brief nod. Taking a step toward her, he proffered his arm.
Helena raised her chin and swept past him.
In two huge strides, he was in front of her. “My lady?” He proffered his arm again.
After a moment, he simply raised her hand and put it on his.
Warm fingers trapped hers to hold her hand in place. Helena refused to look at him as she allowed him to lead her toward the stairs to the lower level.
It was because she wanted to avoid an undignified tussle before the men at arms. That was why she left his hand atop hers. She wasn’t in the least cowed by him, or the steel of his forearm beneath her fingers.
All eyes turned in her direction as she entered the hall with Sir Guy. People clustered about, whispering amongst themselves. A few hardier souls were attempting to prepare the hall for breaking the fast.
Shock reflected on the faces of the people of Lystanwold. News of Roger’s exile and her marriage would have already flown amongst them, along with every lurid tale of the ‘Scourge of Faringdon.’ They had gone to their beds the night before with all in its rightful place and awoken this morning to find their lady wed and their lord banished.
Wary glances slid past Sir Guy. He looked as if he might grab a sword and start lopping off heads at any moment. It was not a reassuring sight. Her people would fight for her if she asked them. If they believed she was in any danger, they would fight to the last drop of blood for her.
Through the screens, Guy’s men had entered. Like wolves, alert and wary of their surroundings, the invaders flowed along the edges of the hall. Warriors, all, battle hardened and skilled. Many of her people would die if she cried ‘foul.’
Sir Ewayne tracked the newcomers slipping into the hall, his body tense as a bowstring. He was a good man and had served Roger selflessly and well all these years. A knight who took his duty that seriously might have been brought into Roger’s confidence.
God’s wrath, Roger should have taken her into his confidence. Her uncle must have been nigh on desperate to act as he had.
Sir Ewayne stayed his weapon, but the sheer act of will was carved into the taut lines of his body. Around him, the men of Lystanwold covertly waited to follow his lead.
If she screamed for help now, it would degenerate into a blood bath. Helena couldn’t allow that to happen. She forced a serene smile to her lips. The skin of her jaw tightened with the effort.
“My lord?” Her voice carried throughout the hall. “Mayhap we should break the fast?”
“Eh?”
“Do I have your permission to serve the meal?” The words lodged in her throat. She’d never asked anyone’s permission at Lystanwold. Even Roger had deferred to her in all matters pertaining to the keep.
“Aye.” He gave a brusque wave to indicate they should proceed.
It wasn’t the most gracious acceptance, but what did she expect of a mercenary war dog? Helena motioned for a few of the serving men to move the trestle tables into place.
Sir Guy hurried her toward the dais, her hand still firmly gripped by his large fingers. Helena managed to exchange a few greetings with the castle folk. The smell of food drifted across the hall, but her stomach was too knotted to eat.
He seated her on the bench and sat beside her. His large frame crowded against her and she inched slightly away. He overwhelmed with his presence.
“My lady?” Sir Ewayne approached the dais.
The man beside her grew instantly alert. Helena shifted another inch away. She motioned for Sir Ewayne to continue.
The knight threw a hard look at Guy and it was returned without a flinch. “Shall we have the men of the keep swear fealty?”
Helena dropped the apple she feigned eating.
Long, blunt fingers caught it before it hit the table. Large and calloused his fingers might be, but he cradled the apple gently.
Fealty. She started at the word. Roger was gone. These men would have to swear to their new lord or move on. She should order the action, but the words wouldn’t come. Roger’s men were loyal to him and his rule—
The man beside her suddenly broke the silence. “Nay,” Sir Guy said. “Let every man think on it. A man has the right to . . . decide . . . to whom he swears.”
Surprise held her still. She put the apple carefully on her trencher.
A slight flush stained his cheek. “Come.” He rose suddenly and took the stairs from the dais in a light leap. “Walk with me, Sir Ewayne.” It wasn’t exactly a request, but neither was it a command, and Ewayne turned and joined Sir Guy. They strode out of the hall.
Bridget snorted from the other side of the table. “Did not think he would say that, did you, Nell?”
“No,” she replied thoughtfully. “I did not.”
The hall was nearly empty by the time Colin appeared. It was as if a fist squeezed her heart as his tall, lithe form crossed toward her.
“Nell?” He was frowning. “I have just heard the most pernicious rumor.”
Helena winced. She’d hoped to tell Colin herself, but the extra occupants of the hall caused the meal to stretch long into the morning. It was late before the keep rose from the table. Sir Guy and Sir Ewayne hadn’t rejoined them, but Willie reported seeing them in the practice yards. Probably thwacking things and making firm friends.
“Sit down, Colin.” Helena motioned for him to be seated beside her. “I will get you something to eat.” She turned to a serving girl to pass the instruction as she pondered the best way to tell Colin the news. He would be devastated.
“They say you are wed.” He threw himself onto the bench beside her. “I said it must be a lie because you cannot be wed. You are to marry me.”
“It appears we waited too long.” It was the wrong thing to say because Colin’s face clouded over immediately.
“Is this some jest of yours?
An underhanded contrivance to force my hand?”
“There you have it, Colin.” Helena laced her tone heavily with irony. “I have been plotting behind your back and this is the result.”
“Nell.” His brows gathered like a storm cloud over his eyes.
She was being petty. Colin’s reluctance to wed had rankled so, but it no longer mattered. “Roger brought him from Court.”
Helena broke off at the interruption of a serving maid who placed a bowl of stewed fruit before Colin with a fresh nut loaf and some cheese.
He gave the food a cursory glance. “Brought who from court?”
“Eat, Colin.” Helena nudged his bowl toward him. “Roger is banished,” she whispered. Some of Sir Guy’s men still lingered in the hall.
Colin gaped at her. “Banished?”
“Aye.” Roger was truly gone, leaving a huge hole in his wake. She missed him already. Sweet Lord, how would they get on without him? “He refused the king’s latest call to arms and Stephen branded him a traitor for it.”
“So where is he?”
“Gone.” It hurt just to say it aloud. “Roger has left for Normandy.”
“I warned him.” Colin pushed the bowl away. “Now what is to become of us?”
“Roger saw to that.” Helena fastened her gaze on the table before her. “It seems that the rumor is true, Colin. I am wed to Guy of Helston.”
“You cannot be.”
“But I am.” Bitter frustration thickened in her throat. She and Colin were a perfect match. Perfect. Roger would have seen that in time.
Colin scowled at her. “Roger would never have done such a monstrous thing.”
“Mind your tongue,” Helena warned him. She let her glance linger significantly over the new faces in the hall. “And, aye, it is true.”