Siege

by Virginia Farmer

  Chapter Three

  “Sweet God,” Anora gasped, her lungs emptied and her heart stopped as the child stood up. She slapped her hand over her mouth to silence the scream clawing its way up her throat. She swallowed against it and dropped her hand to her side.

  Eyes widened and body tensed, she watched the scene below.

  The Norman stood with his back to her and his feet braced apart, casting a long shadow over the group of children. Peering beyond the Norman, her gaze locked on the boy.

  She could not hear the words spoken, but the belligerent set to the child’s body had her gripping the edge of the window opening. “Sit down.” Her whispered words evaporated on an errant breeze. Tears burned behind her eyes. “Do not challenge him.” He was just a boy, but the Norman could well look upon him as a threat.

  A moment later the child sat down and Anora sucked in a deep breath, the tension ebbing from her body only to return as the Norman moved to the last group of her people.

  The rumble of men’s voices reached her. She leaned out the window a bit, straining to hear the conversation. Who was the Norman talking to? Shifting her position at the window, she tried to see beyond the broad shoulders of the man, but failed.

  Suddenly, his stance went rigid. He nodded to two of his soldiers. He spun around and looking up, he met and held her gaze. Fire sparked from his eyes and with angry strides, he disappeared from her view.

  She watched as Harold was taken from the group. Another one to fall beneath the blade of the invader. When would the killing end? When all the Saxons were dead, came the answer.

  Her knees weakened. “Please, God…” She paused and knew not what to ask of Him.

  She watched her people leave the bailey, their shoulders slumped in defeat. An ache took up residence in her chest. So strong was the pain that she gripped the wooden shutter, lest she crumple to the floor.

  They were defeated, now to live their lives under the rule of the Norman invader or die by his sword. For those who lived, their freedom, as well as the Saxon way of life, would be gone. They would be slaves to the victors, treated like animals, their possessions stripped from them, their pride in tatters.

  She turned from the window, rage and fear alternately driving her feet over the boards of the floor as she paced her room. She’d seen the looks of terror upon her peoples’ faces as they were herded into the bailey.

  And now another of Fairhurst’s meager numbers was dead. She was grateful the Norman had taken Harold away to execute him. Praise God, the women and children were saved from that brutality.

  For now, at least.

  Tears escaped her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. Sir Godwin, Joseph, and now Harold—all victims of the Norman’s sword. They were but old men, their time of battling the enemy past. Mayhap not Sir Godwin, he was a trained warrior, but Joseph and Harold? They could do the Norman little harm.

  The heavy tread of feet and mumbled words warned her of visitors to her chamber. She pulled herself from the morose thoughts plaguing her and wiped her cheeks dry.

  She straightened her shoulders. The Normans may have taken the castle, but they had yet to win the war. There were other ways to resist the enemy.

  The door swung open, admitting a burly Norman guard bearing a tray. With a start, Anora realized she’d not eaten in two days. She felt no hunger, so filled with worry and anger was she.

  Without a word, the man placed the food on a table and left.

  The tray held a small portion of bread, a measure of cheese and a tankard of watered wine. A veritable feast compared to the meal she ate every second day. She’d endeavored to stretch what food Fairhurst had as far as possible. Each time she gazed upon the gaunt faces of her people, her heart cracked a bit more and helplessness weighed her shoulders.

  She stared at the tray. Was it only yesterday that Cook had told her the store of flour would soon be gone? It seemed like years instead of a day.

  Pulling up a chair, she sat down, eyeing the contents of the tray. Nudging the bread with her finger, she found it a bit dry and beginning to harden. The cheese was fresher and the tankard of wine inviting. Anora took a sip of wine and realized she was thirsty. A few more sips and her belly rumbled in protest.

  ’Twould not do to fall ill now. Like as not, the Norman would turn her out anyway. She must keep her strength for the ordeal to come.

  She had just finished when the door opened.

  “Lady Fairhurst. I’m glad to see you’ve eaten.”

  Anora stood, the wine soured in her stomach, and the food turned into a heavy lump. She looked at the floor as the Norman ambled into the room and closed the door.

  Cursing herself for allowing him to intimidate her, she brought her head up and watched him. He took his time, looking over the sparse furnishings of her room. She followed his gaze to the pegs on the wall where her brown tunic hung, then to the table and chair before the cold brazier. He glanced over the remains of her meal.

  And then he turned his head and looked at the bed. Anora swallowed, grateful she’d smoothed the linens after rising this morn. ’Twas bad enough the ideas the bed could induce, but rumpled linens might act as an invitation—one she would never issue.

  He glanced from the bed to her. Memories of his arm around her flooded her mind. She clasped her hands together to still their shaking.

  Please God, not that!

  He turned and faced her, one brow arched. “You are a woman of order, your home well organized and closely maintained. ’Tis good.”

  Anora bit back a laugh. Did he think to turn her head with such flattery? ’Twas her duty as a good chatelaine, a duty she took pride in, a duty she embraced for she loved her people dearly. She looked at him closely. He met her glare without wavering. She raised her chin.

  It mattered not, his compliments were naught to her. She was immune to one such as he.

  Wasn’t she?

  Pushing her doubts aside, she stared back at him. “What is it you want?”

  Rage bubbled in her veins. She would not dance around an issue with banal conversation. He was here in her chambers for a reason, and she would know it.

  His brow inched higher on his forehead and he stood straighter, as if preparing for battle. Anora’s nerves stretched.

  “Your oath of fealty.”

  She laughed. Not a soft feminine laugh, but a harsh, angry one.

  The Norman’s eyes narrowed and the muscles in his jaw flexed. “I will have your oath…now.” His tone was low, threatening. Anora’s laughter continued, an edge of hysteria pitching it higher. Fear and anger churned within her. Blood rushed to her head.

  In three long strides he stood before her and reached for her shoulders. The moment his hands touched her, she attacked, throwing herself at him, her fingers curled into talons, reaching for his face.

  Grasping her wrists, the Norman pulled her hands behind her, jerking her body close against his. Her gaze collided with his fierce stare. She refused to blink, despite the tears blurring her vision.

  The mingled heat of their bodies fairly burned Anora and her nipples tightened. She knew from the desire darkening his eyes that he was aware of her reaction. He tightened his hold and she felt his body’s answering response. She exhaled, and her breasts moved against the solid wall of his chest. Their bodies met and matched, curve for curve. Her heart thudded in her chest.

  No longer able to bear the heat blazing from his eyes, Anora looked at his mouth.

  ’Twas a mistake.

  She expected to see a cruel sneer thinning his lips, but nay, his warm breath fanned her forehead, his mouth relaxed. He lowered his face to hers.

  Mesmerized, all she could do was watch wide-eyed as his mouth descended to hers. Her body refused her command to flee. A mere brush of his lips, warm and soft, and Anora’s knees shook. And then his mouth covered hers.

  When his tongue traced the seam of her lips, Anora gasped and pulled away, shame heating her cheeks.

  The Norman stepped back, but n
ot before Anora noted the high color tingeing his face. He scowled before striding to the door.

  At the threshold, he stopped and faced her.

  “The fate of your people is in your hands. An oath of fealty will ensure their safety.” His gaze raked her from head to hem. “And perhaps yours as well.”

  Anora stood with her hands clenched at her side, shock ricocheting through her. FitzGillen’s threat hung over her head; her body trembled from the heat of his embrace. And then he left

  Exactly what form did he mean her oath to take? Surely, not physical. Nay, she thought, his look was meant to intimidate her. He but used his size and maleness in an attempt to extort her cooperation.

  She closed her eyes, expelling the breath she unconsciously held. Gathering in her emotions, she opened her eyes, her fingers gently touching her mouth. Her lips still tingled from his touch; his lingering warmth remained, even after the door closed behind him.

  Anora fought back the tears, cursing her body for craving his return. Her gasp filled the silence of the room.

  How could she bear his touch, let alone hunger for it? He was the enemy, a murderer. She must remember that and be on guard for his assault, for she did not misunderstand the menace in his words.

  The siege of Fairhurst had been accomplished, but now ’twould seem he laid siege upon her person.

  Rosard stood outside the lady’s door, grateful he’d dismissed the guard. His body still hummed with desire, the feel of her imprinted on his senses. ’Twould be the talk of the men were anyone to see him this shaken, and by a thoroughly stubborn Saxon woman.

  Aye, thoroughly stubborn. And thoroughly alluring; with lips that tasted of wine and a form that fitted perfectly to his. His admiration for her as a worthy opponent now broadened to include her feminine powers as well.

  And judging from his response to her, ’twould serve him well to find a convent.

  And quickly.

  But the thought, meant to quell the ardor still tightening his body, failed. Nay, he could not see a woman such as Lady Anora hidden beneath the veil of the Church and consigned to a life of prayer. She was a woman of high emotions. She was a woman of fiery passion meant for a man.

  She was a woman meant for him.

  Glancing at her door, he frowned and left. He should not be entertaining such thoughts. The woman was a threat to him, his men and the home he craved. She stood between him and peace.

  Aye, he could bed her, but his instincts told him ’twould not be enough. He would want to conquer her, to make her bend to his will. But he feared ’twould be him bending and not her.

  * * * * *

  Gaspar FitzGillen knelt with bowed head before the king. The rustle of parchment and the murmur of voices were the only sounds in the chamber.

  He fought back the temptation to glance up at King William. He’d been here before his liege for some minutes and the king had yet to recognize him.

  “Ah, FitzGillen.”

  Gaspar brought his head up, forcing a smile to his lips. “Your Majesty.”

  “And how goes the south?” The king did not signal for him to rise, instead he picked up a silver chalice from a nearby table and drank, not offering any to Gaspar. He knew the king intended the slight, hoping to goad Gaspar’s temper. Resolutely, he clamped down on his tongue.

  “Whitshire bends its knee to William the First of England.” Mayhap that would appease the king, Gaspar thought.

  William’s gaze narrowed and he said, “Just so. Is there aught left of the place?”

  Gaspar swallowed. In truth, little remained of Whitshire, and he sensed William’s displeasure.

  “Sire, I but followed your example of Yorkshire.”

  “Yorkshire?” The king slammed the chalice on the table and rose from his chair, towering over Gaspar from his dais. “Do not speak to me of it. I have long regretted the rage that brought me to lay waste to everything—cottages, fields and people.”

  “But, sire, there must be a show of force if we hope to hold England.”

  “Force, yes, not devastation. I suffer greatly for the deeds done that day.”

  Gaspar stared at William. Yorkshire should never have sided with the Danish king; ’twas they who were at fault, not the king.

  William sat down, taking up the cup of wine again. Gaspar waited as his liege tethered his temper.

  Gaspar longed to get this interview over and make arrangements to return to Normandy. He was sick of England and craved the comforts of home. His belongings were packed in readiness for his departure. A ship was anchored in the bay and would sail with the evening tide. If he could find the captain, he could secure passage this eve.

  William cleared his throat, and Gaspar jerked his gaze up.

  “I would grant you Whitshire and all its properties. I believe the people will long remember your strength. It will give them pause before they rise up again.”

  “But, sire, I have no need of holdings here.” Gaspar pushed to his feet. “I have all I need in Normandy.”

  The king arched an eyebrow and Gaspar realized his mistake. William’s face colored, and he knew the king barely held his temper in check.

  “You will go to Whitshire. You will rebuild it and see that it is profitable again. If you fail, I shall confiscate your holdings in Normandy as payment.”

  Gaspar sucked in a breath, his hand went to the hilt of his sword. William smiled, seeming to dare him to draw his blade.

  Changing position, Gaspar rested his hand on the top of his hilt. To challenge the king would bring about his own death. But it puzzled him why the man had taken such a dislike to him. It had been thus for as long as Gaspar could recall.

  That William favored Rosard, Gaspar’s half-brother, was no secret. ’Twas well known that William’s uncle had hidden his nephew several times with Rosard and his mother to keep him safe from the enemies of both William and his late father.

  But Gaspar had done naught to earn the king’s disfavor.

  Mayhap if he could scrape the village together and rebuild the keep quickly he would earn the king’s favor and his liege would return him to Normandy. It rankled that he would have to use his own funds for the repairs. But he could tell William would brook no argument.

  “Aye, Your Majesty, as you wish.”

  Gaspar started to back away, but then stopped. “What of Rosard?” He hadn’t heard much of his half-brother, not that they were close, but he always felt it best to know where the bastard was.

  A genuine smile lifted the king’s lips. “Ah, Rosard. He is in the north. Fairhurst, I believe.”

  Shock froze Gaspar to the spot. “The bastard? Fairhurst?” He frowned. “But why?”

  “Aye, the bastard.” William glared at Gaspar. “I’ve need of a strong, capable overlord in that area. And he’s acquitted himself well in battle.”

  Gaspar’s anger surged to the surface. “I would rather hold Fairhurst for you, Your Majesty. I am quite capable of bringing the Saxons to heel.” A red haze of fury settled over him, and he took several steps toward the king.

  God’s blood, did the bastard get everything? If Gaspar must hold property in England, he would rather not have to live amid the rubble of Whitshire.

  “I would have Fairhurst.”

  “Enough.” The king raised his hand. “You may be a powerful baron in Normandy, but that too can change. I and only I decide who is awarded what in England. You will have Whitshire, and you will rebuild it.” A muscle twitched in the king’s jaw and his eyes narrowed to mere slits.

  It was this that reminded Gaspar of his place.

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I forget myself.”

  “Aye. And see that it does not happen again.” William rose. “You may go.” He descended the steps of the dais and exited through a side door.

  Gaspar slammed through the door, bumping into a young page in the corridor. “Be gone with you.” He gave the boy a shove, sending him flying against the wall.

  Rosard ever seemed to get the lion’s
share of everything. Wives, sons and now holdings in England. But mayhap the rumors he’d heard about the riches of Fairhurst were wrong. He could but hope. At least Rosard was consigned to the wilds of the North, far removed from civilization. ’Twas where he belonged.

  Chapter Four

  Anora paced her chamber. Three days had passed since the Norman first demanded her oath of fealty. Each of those mornings he appeared repeating his demand. Her response had been ‘nay’ at each visit. And he reacted the same; he would raise a brow, shake his head and with an abrupt nod, leave her to her solitude.

  Other than the surly guard who brought food and escorted her to the guarderobe, FitzGillen was her only visitor; if he could be called such.

  When she first found herself a prisoner in her room, she expected to be given bread and watered wine until she pledged her oath. But nay, he had brought forth his stores and filled Fairhurst’s cellars. Once again meat was served at meals with plenty of bread and root vegetables. And this largess filled the trays brought to her.

  The Norman was ever doing the unexpected. From the first day of his arrival outside Fairhurst walls, his behavior had been completely at odds with everything she knew of battles and Normans.

  “He is like no other I have known.” She walked to the bed and smoothed the linens yet again. “By now, Fairhurst should be rubble, the people either dead or wishing they were, and I should be turning to dust beneath a mound of dirt.”

  She went to the brazier, took a small piece of wood and poked at the embers glowing amidst the gray ashes. “What does he plan?” Time and again panic overwhelmed her as she had witnessed one of her people dragged to the castle. And each time she prayed for their safety and leniency from the Norman. And each time her prayers had been answered. The man, woman or child would emerge from the great hall and head for their cottage. Mayhap the child walked a little stiffly or the man or woman’s shoulders would be hunched, but none seemed frightened or wounded.

  “Does this Norman enjoy the game of cat and mouse? Does he but play with us to get our guard down only to slaughter all in our sleep?”