Straightening up, Anora huffed. This is what she’d come to, then, talking to herself and finding no answers to the questions plaguing her.
’Twas loneliness that tormented her, too. She missed the company of her people.
There were precious few moments one had alone at Fairhurst. Always there was someone about, cleaning, cooking or serving. She now regretted those times when she longed for an hour or two of solitude. Mayhap, the Lord had kept a tally of all those times she’d wish for a bit of time alone, and now delivered His answer to her prayers in full.
She sat in the chair and watched, as a small flame began to lick the dry wood she’d just put in the brazier. The fire curled around the stick, consuming it greedily. Much as the Duke of Normandy had done to England.
Heat rose from the brazier, and though it dispelled the chill of the room, it could not reach Anora’s heart. She missed her people and worried for their welfare. The uncertainty of their future as well as hers ate at her composure.
Was she treading the right path by refusing to give her oath? Or was it her stubbornness that drove her? Edmund had ever told her ’twould be the source of her problems. But what else could she do?
With a sigh, she rose from her seat, doubts weighing heavily on her mind.
Dusk cast its lavender shadows in her chamber, and Anora moved to her bed. Soon, the moon would rise and it would be an end to yet another day of uncertainty and frustration. Would she awaken tomorrow and find things changed? Or would tomorrow blend with the days before converging into a miasma of nothingness?
Removing her shoes and stockings, she sighed heavily, fighting the depression that ever seemed about to close over her like a heavy black cloud.
She reached out and pulled the bed linens back, scooting beneath them. She had taken to sleeping in her clothes. Being dragged naked from her bed once was enough. She would not suffer that humiliation again.
* * * * *
Only a few bestirred themselves as Rosard left the castle. The sky was just beginning to lighten, heralding the dawn, when he began his rounds, checking the watch and seeing to the condition of the bailey. The rain had ceased earlier, leaving the inner bailey a quagmire of mud, but it did not alter Rosard's good mood.
The much-needed supplies from King William’s stores should arrive later today. Even supplementing Fairhurst’s meager stores with the supplies he brought with him had barely met the demand.
Mayhap once the Saxons had enough to eat and the repairs were completed in the village, there would be contentment. For now, the people were watchful of his rule and distrustful of the Normans.
By the time he’d made a full circuit of the bailey, the sun shot golden rays over the horizon. Thinking to find a place to clean his boots and then grab a hunk of bread to hold him until the morning meal was served, he headed for the kitchens. As he went, Rosard let his mind wander.
Lady Anora’s face came to mind and again, he recalled their kiss, as he did each morn. The memory of it still aroused him. Mayhap he should forego his usual visit to her. He found himself looking forward to it each morning. Though he would admit it to no one but himself, he took special care with his appearance before going to her. She was ever on his mind.
He held the lady in high esteem for her principles, determination and the love and loyalty the people of the castle gave her.
She had withstood a siege. Granted, his siege of the castle had been quite tame. But when confronted with a large Norman army, complete with archers, foot soldiers, horsemen and siege engines, many a brave man had surrendered. But not the lady. Nay, she’d stood on the battlements conferring with her captain, daring Rosard’s army to attack.
He had been duly impressed when the castle fell to him. Lady Anora was an exemplary manager, conscientious in the care of both the hall and her people. She was neat and clean about her person, sparing little coin for her own adornment, as attested by the single well-worn brown tunic on the pegs in her room. She sacrificed much for them.
She would look well in a deep green tunic trimmed in gold and a white veil held in place with a gold circlet studded with emeralds, he thought. And then shook the picture from his mind.
Yes, it was a good decision to forego his visit. He was getting fanciful and much too involved with the woman. Mayhap, letting her stew awhile would give her time to reconcile to the Norman presence in England.
He shook his head again. Nay, time would not accomplish such a task. There was much before him to accomplish. He had no time to coddle the lady. He had but two choices then, banishment or a convent.
Banishment was a harsh sentence. With no place to go, no family to go to, she would surely die. The thought left him cold. Besides, her people were loyal and he feared that were he to banish her, they would rebel and many would die.
A convent would be the most expedient and safest, for all. Or would it? Would it matter to the people of Fairhurst where she went? The fact that she was no longer at Fairhurst would challenge their loyalty.
Truly, her oath was the key to the peace he craved. But how was he to manage it?
’Twould be yet another battle, for the lady was a rebellious and stubborn woman.
Mayhap if he extended the hand of peace to the people of Fairhurst at court this day, they would see again that he meant to deal fairly with them. He had sent word to the village that all were to present their problems and complaints to him. There would be plenty. His men had shown remarkable restraint with the people, but still there had been a few incidences. And when he requested their oath, he knew there would be many raised voices. ’Twould be simpler if their lady would but give her oath. He had no doubt that the people would follow her lead.
He’d spent these last few days among the cottages, taking note of damage that needed to be repaired, ordering minor repairs and attempting to put the people at ease. For the most part, they seemed reconciled to his authority. Fairhurst was located some fifty-five leagues from York, and word of William’s decimation had preceded Rosard. The people were gradually beginning to realize that he would not be razing Fairhurst, killing the inhabitants and making off with anything of value. York had been a sad affair, and not one Rosard dwelled upon. William had needed a show of strength and though it ate at the king’s conscience, he’d done what he thought necessary. And it had worked, to a large degree.
But it made it doubly hard to convince anyone here that their fate would not mirror York’s. Only time and experience would prove to them that he meant to deal fairly and justly with them all.
“Will it work?” The words stopped Rosard before he stepped over the threshold of the kitchen. Pulling back against the wall, he listened to the conversation, recognizing Joseph’s voice immediately.
“Aye. But ye must be careful the servants keep them straight.” That the voice of the rotund Saxon cook, Merton.
“Are ye sure ’twill kill them, not just make them sick?”
“Aye.” The cook huffed. “Did I not tell you so?”
Rosard chanced a look at the two. Their backs were to him as Joseph watched the cook stirring the contents of the large pot hanging over the cooking hearth.
“They won’t be able to taste it, will they?”
“Nay. ’Tis tasteless.”
Rosard ducked back from the opened door as Merton turned around. Anger burning away the goodness of the day, he strode away from the kitchen, his muddy boots forgotten.
“God’s bones,” he muttered as he climbed the steps of the hall. Mayhap he’d been wrong in sparing the lives of the Saxons and their lady. He shook his head. Nay, he thought, he’d had his fill of the slaughter of innocents. Even those who might attempt to end his life. He would find a way to bring them to heel. He had but to be patient.
* * * * *
“My lady?” Anora rolled from the bed as the knocking on the door continued. She straightened her clothing, brushing at the creases in her top tunic.
“Aye?”
The door opened and her guard stepped
over the threshold.
“My lord requests that you attend him below.”
Anora stared at the man. Below? She was to go below?
“Why?” What was the Norman up to this time?
“My lady?” The guard cocked his head, wrinkling his brow.
“Why?” Anora braced her hands on her hips. “Why does he want me to go below?”
The man shook his head and replied slowly, “To break your fast, my lady.”
Anora bristled at the man’s attitude. She wasn’t simple, she understood his words. It still amazed her that a Norman guard could speak English. From her hours before the open window, she knew that many of FitzGillen’s soldiers spoke Saxon to one degree or another.
His gaze slid over her wrinkled attire. “I’ll give you a few minutes to ready yourself.” He closed the door.
For a moment, Anora considered going down as she was, her tunic rumpled, strands of her hair escaping the braid hanging down her back. But then she realized the pettiness of it all. And what would it serve? To make him think she had no pride? No manners? And what would her people think? Nay, she could not embarrass them in such a way.
Hurriedly, she stripped off her clothing. Her hands shook with anticipation as she rummaged in her chest, pulling out a pale green under tunic. Slipping it over her head, she pulled her brown, faded woolen top tunic from the peg on the wall. She fumbled with her leather girdle and taking a deep calming breath, she finally tied it about her waist. She sat down and pulled on her hose and shoes, then went to the basin and splashed cold water on her face. Her cheeks tingled from the cold, adding to the cautious excitement that filled her at the thought of seeing the castle folk.
She sat on the edge of the bed and unbraided her hair. Taking up the brush from the nearby table and with quick movements, she brushed out the tangles, re-braided it and pinned it at the nape of her neck. She placed a white wimple over her head and stood ready to face her people and the Normans.
Moments later the door swung open. The guard’s gaze swept over her and with a nod, he stood back to allow her to precede him.
Anora’s nerves stretched tight. Fear clenched her stomach, and she doubted she’d be able to eat anything. What would greet her below? And why was she being summoned to eat with the Norman? Did he finally realize she would never give him her oath?
The noises of a busy hall drifted up to her as she followed the guard down the corridor. A familiar voice here and there brought a swelling to her heart. She would see the people of Fairhurst this morn. Mayhap she could find a way to speak with them, find out how they were faring. Her step quickened. The guard stood aside on the landing.
As she descended the stairs, her gaze devoured the sights she’d missed over the last four days.
She smiled briefly. Some of her people still lived. The smile died. But for how much longer? Was this to be the end? Is that why she’d been sent for?
Normans and Saxons alike filled the hall. Her people clustered together on the far side of the room, while the Normans occupied the near tables. They would never mingle, she thought. ’Twould be hard for Saxons to trust the invaders.
There was a blend of Norman French and Saxon English all around her as her foot trod the last stair. She strained to hear the words of her people as she passed near two Norman soldiers.
“So this is the old crone King William said would yield to my lord?” The Norman warrior stood aside, speaking with another fellow, unaware that Anora understood Norman French. She schooled her features to betray nothing of her surprise at his words.
So FitzGillen and the Bastard had thought her an old woman. That explained why the Norman brought his full contingent of soldiers, rather than a smaller contingent used in sieges. Why, too, the siege engines were not brought forward with all haste. He thought she would simply open the gates and welcome him.
She moved on, biting back a wave of anger and focusing on a cluster of old men, their toothless grins lighting their faces as she approached.
“My lady, ye are well? The devil hasn’t harmed ye?”
“I am well. And you?” Her gaze swept the men around her. “Are you all well?”
“Aye, my lady. We be as well as our age will allow.” One of the men bobbed his head.
“What of Harold?” She heard the note of fear in her voice. Swallowing the emotion, she added, “Have you word of him?”
“He were took below, not to be seen again.”
She felt the blood leave her face, and one of the men stepped up, concern filling his eyes. “My lady, I’m sure Harold is well. As are Godwin and the guards.”
Nay, she thought. The Norman could ill afford to show mercy to the men.
Searching the earnest faces around her, Anora forced her lips to turn up in a small smile. She would not disavow his notions. “I’m certain you are right. I thank you for the information.”
Anora moved on about the hall, greeting and reassuring her people, surprised yet again that the Norman would allow her time with them.
“Lady Fairhurst.” She met and greeted a group of woman, asking after their health, enjoying the sounds of their voices.
“He saw that my fence was repaired.”
“I’ve firewood a plenty now. He saw to that.”
Another woman joined in, her hands resting on the swollen mound of the child she carried. “Another room, my lady. He has ordered them to build another room onto my cottage.”
The women spoke rapidly, excitement filling their voices.
Again, the Norman confused Anora with his actions. No Saxon thus far had spoken ill of FitzGillen.
The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She glanced over her shoulder, and her gaze collided with FitzGillen’s. A muscle in his jaw flexed, his eyes narrowed and he stared at her a long moment. Anger radiated from him, rolling toward her in waves. He blinked, and then nodded. Turning, she saw her guard approach.
“This way, my lady.” Taking her elbow, he guided her to his lord.
She straightened her shoulders and tilted her chin up. His anger did not equal hers, but she would maintain her pride whilst among her people. ’Twas past time she recalled herself and her responsibility to the people of Fairhurst.
Her steps faltered as the guard mounted the dais, leading her to FitzGillen. Was she to share the place with him, then? Dear God in heaven, no. For her people to see her thus…would they think her a traitor?
The Norman lord stood as she approached, offering her a seat. She glanced down and gasped. He meant for her to sit beside him on the wide seat Edmund had designed especially for them to share when first they wed.
It was crafted of oak, with no arms, but a high, carved back. She had painstakingly embroidered the heavy velvet covering the cushion.
And now the Norman sat upon it.
She glanced up at FitzGillen. His brown eyes sparked with challenge and she bit the inside of her mouth. Nay, she would not oppose him in this. Resistance would gain her naught and well she knew it. Mayhap her people would understand the sacrifice she made.
Raising an eyebrow and tilting her head in the barest of nods, she slid onto the seat, taking up as little room as possible.
Rosard sat down and a servant brought forth a bowl of gruel, setting it before him. From the other side, a tray with bread and cheese was set before Anora. Glancing up, she offered a smile to the servant.
“Joseph?” The servant’s name whispered from her lips even as her eyes misted upon sight of the man. Her heart gladdened at sight of the old man. “You are—”
“You will share my gruel.” Rosard interrupted her. He pushed her food aside and moved the bowl between them, his leg pressing against Anora’s thigh.
Pulling her gaze from Joseph, she stiffened. “Nay, sir.” She shifted, escaping the intimate contact of their thighs. “I’ve no taste for gruel. What Joseph has given me will suffice.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Nonetheless, you will share it with me.” Taking a spoonful, he held it before her.
Taking the spoon, careful not to touch him, she brought it to her lips.
With a cry, Joseph stepped up beside her and dashed the spoon out of her hand. It clattered to the floor, its contents splattered on the linen covering the table.
“Nay, my lady.”
Startled she looked to Joseph’s white face. “Joseph? ’Tis fine.”
“’Tis tainted.”
At his mumbled words, her stomach clenched, the air tensed and the hall fell silent. Dear God, what had Joseph done? She closed her eyes, fighting her tears. Opening them, she turned and met the hard glare of FitzGillen. What would the Norman do?
He turned from her. “Guards. Take the steward and cook below.” Two Norman soldiers stepped up, one taking hold of Joseph, escorting him from the hall. The other headed to the kitchen.
As Joseph was led away, Anora spoke up. “My lord, please, Joseph is an old man. The chill of the dungeon will kill him.”
“Better him than me.”
Her hands gripped his forearm. “Please, can you not understand loyalty?”
“Aye, my lady. But his is misplaced.” He looked into her eyes. “Did you give me your oath before the people of Fairhurst, I might reconsider.”
Joseph wrenched out of the grip of one of the guards and shouted to Anora. “Nay, my lady. Do not disgrace yourself. He will not honor his word. Do not fear for us. ’Tis better to die resisting the Normans than to live under their fist.”
Anora glanced from Joseph to the Norman. He met her gaze, but she could read nothing in his eyes.
The guard gained hold of Joseph and pulled him through the archway, leading him away.
“I will have you escorted to your rooms, my lady. I haven’t the patience to deal with any more of your people today.” He nodded to her guard and as she left, she heard him say, “See that the tainted food is destroyed. I’ll have only Normans in the kitchen.”
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