Conquering William

by Sarah Hegger

  He hoisted her into his arms.

  Alice barely had time to shriek before he lowered her onto the bed.

  “Now.” He stood back and tilted his head. “I see I have to start at the beginning. Never mind.” He stretched on his side beside her. “I am a man who enjoys the lead into love, as much as the act itself. I also have the patience of a bedamned saint.”

  “William.” Alice really needed to correct his blasphemy. “You should not—”

  “Be still, Alice.” He nipped at her bottom lip. “Forget about my language. Forget about what comes next. Keep your attention on this.” His mouth covered hers, hot and hungry.

  This she could do, and Alice let her thoughts flee to the corners of the room and beyond. As long as he kept kissing her, she could forget her own name.

  She opened her mouth beneath his.

  His answering groan thrilled her, gave her a sense of some ancient feminine power she held and could wield.

  Hammering came from the door.

  Alice bit back one of William’s nasty curses.

  “Sir William.” Sister’s brittle voice acted like spring water dousing Alice’s mood. “There is trouble amongst the men.”

  “Back to the blasted nunnery.” William growled and strode to the door. He opened the door with a yank. “What is it?”

  Alice felt a moment’s sympathy for Sister as William near bellowed the question.

  “The men have a girl,” Sister said. William blocked Sister from Alice’s sight. “This is what comes of the men being familiar with the women of the keep. As you claim superior knowledge of the men in your charge, I brought this to you.”

  “Stay there.” William left the chamber at a run.

  Sister peered around the door at her, and smirked. “I warned you what comes of sin.”

  * * * *

  William drove his boot heels into the ground, his anger a living, breathing thing within. No habit would protect that nun if she launched another of her venomous insinuations between him and Alice.

  “My lord.” Gord dropped into place beside him. “Thank God, you are come. It is young Molly.”

  “Molly?” A bolt of alarm sparked through him, and William increased his pace.

  Gord panted as he kept up. “She is young. One of the kitchen wenches.”

  “What in hell is she doing in the barracks?” William lengthened his stride across the bailey, his boots sliding through the cold, slick mud.

  “I sent her,” Gord said. “To take some washing cloths and soap to the men. One of the younger lads came to get me.”

  “Jesu.” William drew closer to the barracks. From within came the shouts and jeers of men. Then, almost lost beneath their harsh guttural tones the murmur of a girl’s voice, pleading.

  Ivy’s face flashed before him. Not the Ivy of now, calm and serene, almost angelic in her wisdom, but the Ivy Beatrice had first brought to Anglesea. Pale, her eyes haunted with the horror of what had happened to her. He would rip their bedamned heads off. Men who raised their hands to a woman, used their strength to hurt her, he would tear limb from limb.

  Beyond the barrack doorway he met a solid wall of male backs. All their attention intent on the center of the room. The noise overwhelmed him, along with the sweaty stench of lust. William shouldered through them. Using his fist, he punched a path through those who didn’t move immediately. As he shoved past the last line of watchers, silence descended behind him.

  They had Molly pinned to the back wall. Two of them holding her arms back. He torn bliaut revealed her young breasts bared and quivering with her rapid inhalation. Sweet Jesu, she could be no more than fourteen.

  Dunstan’s back confronted him. He should have guessed who he would find in the thick of this.

  The girl watched him, big, brown eyes choked with terror, silently pleading with William for help.

  His anger hardened into cold, impenetrable ice, sharper than any blade.

  The men holding Molly caught sight of him. Rufus and Aylard, Dunstan’s lackeys, always at his back.

  Aylard dropped Molly’s arm and stepped back. Rufus paled, his grip slackening.

  “Hold her, you scum.” Dunstan shoved Aylard at Molly. “Hold the little cunt.”

  A soft gasp at William’s side made Dunstan whirl about.

  Alice. Jesus wept, she had followed William out into the barracks. Puking fear tore through William’s gut. “Leave.”

  “Nay.” She raised her chin, the top of her head equal with his shoulder. “These are my people. I would be here.”

  Men loomed over her, great hulking, crushing beasts. William had not the time to argue with her. “Keep her safe.” He grabbed Gord by his tunic front. “Get her out of here if you need to.”

  Gord nodded.

  A small group of men pressed closer to Alice. Two flanked her, pushing their shoulders in front of Alice to shield her. They nodded to William as well. The grim set of their features told him they wanted no part of Dunstan’s malice, and they would protect their lady. Later, he would deal with them. He would have no leniency for any man who had witnessed this and not stopped it. But for now, he locked eyes with Dunstan.

  His face flushed, blood high, Dunstan sneered at William. He threw one hand out and strutted before a terror-frozen Molly. “Look, our pretty lordling has come to save the whore.”

  Dunstan topped him by nearly a head. A massive lout with arms thicker than sides of beef. Despite the thick roll of lard hanging over his chausses, Dunstan had the confidence of a gutter rough and some speed with it.

  “It takes three of you to subdue a little girl?” William raked his gaze over Rufus and Aylard.

  Aylard flushed and dropped his head. “It were not my idea.”

  “Get your hands off her.” Out of the corner of his eye, Dunstan pushed closer. Cocky and sure of his influence amongst the men, and his own strength, Dunstan had grown too comfortable in his position of power.

  Molly crumpled to the ground. With shaking hands, she pulled the torn edges of her bodice over herself.

  William approached her. Tension mounted behind his back.

  Dunstan stood his ground, shoulders back, chest thrust out.

  Arrogance would keep Dunstan from attacking his back, but who else fancied his chances of ridding themselves of their new lord?

  Alice remained in the barracks. He forced the fear back behind a rigid shield of purpose.

  “Go.” Angling his body to keep most of the room in view, he took Molly under the elbow and raised her to her feet. “Go to Lady Alice.”

  Rufus sidled along the wall, closer to Dunstan.

  Aylard shifted from one foot to the other, his features pinched as his gaze darted between William and Dunstan.

  William jerked his head at Aylard and Rufus. “Take them.”

  “I will cut the hand off any whoreson who touches them.” Dunstan cracked his knuckles.

  “Such a big man.” William let his gaze travel Dunstan from tip to toe. “Raping little girls and threatening frightened dogs. Would you care to take your chances against someone who fights back?”

  Chin fat jiggled as Dunstan threw back his head and guffawed. “You?”

  “Aye, me.” William’s blood rose hot and angry. “But let us make this a fair fight.” From the sheath at his waist he pulled his dagger and held it out. “Take this, you will need it.”

  * * * *

  William had gone mad, handing a dagger to a foe who towered half a head taller and carried considerably more bulk.

  “Aye, I will take your blade.” Dunstan accepted the gleaming dagger. “And gut you like a pig with it.”

  Amid gasps and deep bass murmurs, the crowd slithered back.

  “My lady.” Gord tugged Alice’s elbow. “You must step back. Return with me to the keep.”

  Alice shook her head. He was madder than William if he thought she would go now.

  Palms up, William circled Dunstan. “
Give it your best,” he said. “Because you will get only one chance.”

  Dunstan lunged.

  William danced back. The knife hissed through air where he’d stood an eye blink ago. Carved from granite, William’s face gave no emotion. His glance flickered over Dunstan, calm and assessing, assured even.

  Brazier light bathed men in amber. Absolute silence descended over the onlookers.

  Molly pressed at her back, gripping Alice’s skirts.

  Swinging the dagger, Dunstan closed left, then spun and sprang to the right, blocking William’s escape.

  William ducked the knife and kicked. Boot connected knee with a sickening crack.

  Dunstan bellowed and lumbered at William, thrusting the knife wildly.

  Dodging, William hammered Dunstan’s ribs.

  Breath whooshed from Dunstan, his face a mask of pain as he roared and plunged the dagger through William’s tunic.

  William leapt straight into Dunstan’s rising fist. It connected with a thud of bone against flesh.

  Chest heaving, William recovered and leapt back. A red mark marred his chin, and he spit blood.

  Closing on William, Dunstan grinned and raised the knife.

  With both fists, William pounded Dunstan’s knife hand, and the knife flew. Dunstan manacled both arms about William’s ribs.

  Face red, William kicked, catching Dunstan’s thigh, then the injured knee.

  With a sharp crack, Dunstan’s knee buckled. He dropped William and stumbled.

  William grabbed Dunstan’s hair and drove his face into his knee until Dunstan’s features melted into a mangled mess of blood and saliva. William roared. Feral. Enraged. Victorious.

  The hair at Alice’s nape lifted.

  He snatched the dagger, yanked Dunstan’s head back, and cut his throat.

  As Dunstan crumpled to the barracks floor, blood gushed over the pale rushes and stained the sandy earth.

  Alice heaved and covered her eyes. William had cut Dunstan’s throat like a diseased dog. Worse was the savage feeling of satisfaction that had whipped through her at the moment William killed the man.

  “Anyone else?” William straightened his shoulders. His cold, furious scrutiny swept the men. “Whip those two.” He gestured to Aylard and Rufus. “Whip them until they understand fear.”

  Men shrank back.

  This was not the handsome, laughing stranger of her bedchamber, or the smooth, urbane diplomat who faced down Aonghas. A stranger, a wild, savage stranger whose calm unnerved her stood in front of them.

  “This is how it will be.” William wiped the dagger on his tunic before sheathing it. “You have this night to decide if you stay at Tarnwych or go. If you go, you leave with the clothes on your back and nothing more. If I find so much as a grain of dirt missing, I will hunt you down and kill you.”

  Men shifted, whispers rippling through them.

  “If you stay, you stay under my rule and my terms. I will deal with anyone who breaks my rules. Do not doubt that for heartbeat.”

  Alice believed him and so did the shocked, nervous faces of the men about her.

  “My rules are simple. You are here to serve the keep. Lay down your lives for those who find shelter here. No woman is to be harmed, ever. I’ll kill you myself, like I did him.” William toed Dunstan’s body. “No child, elder, or any man weaker will feel your fist or your mockery. This is my demesne. Everything on it belongs to me. Your poaching stops now. Arms training begins when the sun rises. Make sure you are ready or get you from my keep.”

  William’s ferocious gaze snapped to her, and Alice shivered. He stalked toward her, gripped her arm and all but dragged her out of the barracks. Halfway across the bailey he spun her to face him. “There are times, my lady, when you will obey me and do so without question.”

  Alice tried to firm her trembling knees.

  “You are never to put yourself in danger like that again.” He shook her, not hard enough to hurt, but a clear warning. “Do you understand me, my lady?”

  Alice nodded. Danger crackled in the air around him. Dread purpose suffused his being, and she crumpled beneath the sheer force of his will. Deep inside, a weak protest rose to challenge his authority. To protest his rough treatment of her, but self-preservation shouted it down and she nodded a second time.

  “Get her back to the keep.” William spun back to the barracks.

  “Come, child.” Sister Julianna took her elbow. “This is no place for you.”

  Reaction set in as they entered the keep. Her shaking limbs stumbled and tripped as she climbed the stairs. The image of Dunstan’s blood filled her mind, and her belly heaved. Red, red blood, oozing life with each precious drop.

  “You poor child.” Sister Julianna slipped her arm around her and supported her.

  “He killed Dunstan.” Was that thin, reedy sound her voice? The hammering of her heart near drowned it out. “I didn’t think he could, or would, but he killed him.”

  “There now.” Sister half carried her through the hall. “Men are nothing more than animals. This has been a harsh lesson for you, but one I trust you will remember and remember well.”

  “How is Molly?”

  Sister Julianna clicked her tongue. “Silly wench is scared witless, but mostly unharmed. He got there before the men could do their worst.”

  William had saved Molly. Savage and vicious he may have been, but he’d had good reason. Hadn’t he? Right and wrong did not seem as defined in her mind anymore. Where lay the greater evil, in what Dunstan had done or the just taking of a life? Could one ever justify taking a life? A headache throbbed behind her eyes. None of her other husbands had caused her this much thinking.

  * * * *

  William clung to the outer bailey wall as he heaved up his dinner. Away from keep eyes he dropped his mask. He had taken a life tonight. As a fighting man, born and raised, he’d encountered death before. Dealt it out more times than he cared to remember, but the senseless waste of life never grew easier.

  He pressed a shaking hand to his screaming ribs and drew a careful breath. Strong as an ox, Dunstan had got a firm grip on his trunk before William got free. Now Dunstan lay dead. William took the washcloth Gord had handed him earlier and wiped Dunstan’s blood from his hands. Would he could wipe it from his conscience.

  He pushed away from the wall and strode into the inner bailey. Careful none of his thoughts showed on his face, he marched past the clusters of men huddled together as they spoke.

  Dunstan had flown his troublemaker colors from William’s first day. Still, William had wanted to be wrong, wanted to avoid the entire confrontation. In raising a weapon against his lord, Dunstan committed treason, a crime punishable by death. Had it gone unpunished, the next man to fancy himself a taste of power would rise in challenge of William’s authority. And the next…

  As a man of war, Father possessed very few finer graces, but he knew men. He had always told all three of his sons a hard, preemptive strike could mean the difference between a protracted, messy war and swift peace.

  Lazy, undisciplined, and left like stray mongrels to develop bad habits, Tarnwych’s men had wallowed in their squalor. Well, he’d sent a clear message tonight. By morning the malcontents would have slunk off into the night.

  At rest for the night, the keep burned low tapers, lighting his walk through the hall. He’d stayed in the bailey long enough for the whipping of Aylard and Rufus. Another senseless act, avoidable if the dullards hadn’t blindly followed the wrong leader. He’d had them cut loose and sent Father Mark to tend their wounds. Would Tarnwych have any men-at-arms left in the morning?

  A boy passed him on the stairs, big eyes staring at William like he’d seen a ghost. The child bowed so low, his forelock brushed the ground. “My lord.”

  “Get to bed, boy. It is late.” William tried to gentle his tone. He would wager tales ran rampant through the keep of his deeds this night.

  “Aye, my lord. Right a
way, my lord.” The boy backed away, missed his step, and would have gone tumbling down the staircase if William hadn’t caught him.

  “What are you doing up so late?”

  The boy averted his gaze, and heavy breaths rasped through his mouth. “Rats.”

  “Rats.”

  “Aye, my lord. I am Will, the rat catcher.”

  “That’s a fine name you have there, young William.”

  Will almost smiled and gripped his tunic. “My thanks, my lord.”

  “Do you always catch rats in the middle of the night?”

  Will nodded. “That is when they are most busy.”

  Rats were not in William’s collection of knowledge. What would his mother do? For certain, she would not support keeping young children from their beds. “Do you like dogs, Will?”

  “Eh?” Will stiffened. “I mean, I do not know, my lord.”

  “Then we shall find out.” William’s bed whispered sweet nothings to his aching body. “We will get some ratters in here, and you shall have the care of them.”

  With a pat on the shoulder, he left Will and resumed climbing the stairs. Alice needed dealing with next. He’d spoken roughly to her tonight, and it sat ill with him. But, sweet Mother of God, when she entered the barracks after him, the fear had nigh choked him. If things had gone badly with Dunstan…

  His flesh crawled. His Alice. Pocket-sized, flower-fragile, and innocent despite her three marriages.

  She was also now frightened of him, and he might have undone all the progress he’d made with Alice. Of course, closer than a tick to a dog, the blasted nun had whispered in Alice’s ear all the way back to the keep.

  Here he’d thought marriage would be a simple thing. Find an appropriate bride, let his father make the match, and then get on with the business of being wed. Unfortunately, Tarnwych threw one snarl after another. His days of wedded bliss drifted further and further from his grasp.

  He opened the door to his bedchamber.

  Alice sat on a bathing stool beside a large bath. Her unbound hair shone to rival the large flames dancing in the fireplace. The tang of lemon filled the warm air.

  “Sir William.” She stood. Her little hands knotted in her apron. “I thought you might like to bathe, after…” She jerked her head toward outside the keep.