“And Widow Brown, what would you have me do?”
Her startled glance met Anora’s.
“I…I, well…“ She straightened and turned her attention to the Norman. “’Tis your decision.”
“I see.” The Norman rested his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers. “’Twould seem this goat is uncontrollable.”
Was he going to condemn the goat? Anora met Lester’s worried gaze, but she could offer him no reassurance.
After a long moment, in which the entire hall fell silent, the Norman spoke.
“Etienne.”
An enormous Norman stepped away from the back wall. The entire assembly turned and looked back at him. His arms were huge, his countenance fearsome.
“Aye, my lord?”
“Can you fashion a lightweight chain?”
What is the Norman up to? ’Twould seem no one, this Etienne included, knew in which direction the Norman’s thoughts were going.
“Aye.” The man frowned.
“Lester, you will meet with my blacksmith, Etienne, and a chain will be fashioned. Let us see if your goat can chew through that.”
Lester bobbed his head, grinning hugely. “Aye, sir, that I will.” He pulled at a lock of his hair. “My thanks.”
The Widow Brown started to speak, but the Norman lifted his hand. “Lester, we have yet to deal with the loss of the Widow Brown’s garden.”
Lester’s shoulders drooped. “Aye, sir.” The sullen words brought a smile to Anora’s lips for all knew Lester was hardly a farmer and the prospect of planting yet another garden for the widow taxed him sorely.
“Have you a garden of your own, Lester?”
“Nay, sir. I trade for my vegetables.”
“Ah.” The Norman rubbed his chin. “And Widow Brown, have you been successful, when the goat has not gotten to your garden, of growing a nice crop?”
“Aye, sir, I have.” The widow straightened a bit more, her eyes filling with pride.
“Then I charge you, Lester, with the planting of not only the Widow’s garden but yours as well. And Widow Brown, you will supervise and see that it is done proper.”
Anora leaned toward him and whispered, “There is no seed to plant.” He looked at her and then nodded.
The Norman leveled his gaze on Lester. “I’ll furnish the seed, but mind you, I expect a decent harvest from you both.”
Lester bobbed his head and started to turn away. “And Lester, you will see to the weeding of both gardens as well.”
Lester’s shoulders drooped a bit more.
Anora turned to look at the Norman, surprised at his generosity. Since the Norman invasion, ’twas a struggle for the people of Fairhurst to find seed enough to plant.
The Norman met her gaze. “I will not see the people of Fairhurst starve, my lady. I have a care for those under my protection.”
And thus was the tone of the court the Norman held. Anora was pleased with his fair treatment of her people. He consulted with her on a number of complaints and listened attentively to her replies. And her people made note of it all and seemed to relax just a bit. There was much laughter at this court, as the Norman had a way of bringing humor to most situations.
The Norman stood and nodded to a guard. The man turned and disappeared. A few moments later, Sir Godwin and the Saxon guard were herded into the hall.
Anora gasped. “Sir Godwin.” His name escaped her lips and tears filled her eyes.
The room filled with the murmur of Saxon voices.
She started to rise, but the Norman’s firm hand on her shoulder warned her to keep her seat. She glanced up at him, a smile trembling on her lips.
But the stern set of his mouth made her turn her gaze to Sir Godwin and the others being escorted in. She gripped her hands together to still the tremors.
The guard pulled Sir Godwin forward, forcing him to kneel before the Norman.
She sucked in a breath of air as she turned to the Norman. All hint of good humor had left his face and his look was unreadable.
She returned to Godwin, noting he looked neither thinner nor battered and beaten. Sir Godwin’s gaze fixed on Anora and she read the question in their brown depths.
She offered him a smile and a nod of reassurance.
Godwin turned his attention to the Norman.
“Sir Godwin, I would have your oath of fealty,” the Norman demanded, his stance tense and straight.
Godwin glared at the Norman. “Nay. My oath has been given and on my honor, I cannot rescind it.”
“To whom are you pledged?” Though the Norman appeared calm, Anora noted the whiteness of his knuckles as he clenched his hands into fists.
She swallowed. Had she ever seen such huge hands? By their very size, they could do much damage were he to choose to wield them. She glanced to Godwin and the blood rushed from her face, leaving her dizzy and weak. She feared for him.
“I have given my oath to my Lady of Fairhurst, and I will not forsake that oath.”
Anora heard Rosard swear beneath his breath.
A chair scraped and Royce stood.
“Do you not give your oath, ’tis death you’ll meet.”
Anora gasped and tears blurred her vision.
Touching her sleeve, Gyfton whispered, “Pray, my lady, take heart. Royce does not speak for Father.” Anora glanced at him and he offered her a smile.
The Norman waved Royce off. The younger man pierced his father with a malevolent glare before taking his seat.
All eyes settled on the Norman and a heavy silence filled the hall. Minutes passed as the Norman regarded Sir Godwin.
Clenching her hands together beneath the table she focused on the man standing beside her. He looked down at her and frowned. Their gazes held a long moment and the creases in his brow relaxed and a calculating gleam lit his gaze.
Anora shifted uncomfortably beneath his scrutiny and her breath hitched in her chest. What was it he planned?
Taking her hand, the Norman brought her up to stand beside him. “In the spirit of cooperation, the Lady Anora has agreed to wed with me. Hence, your honor will not be stained, for an oath to her is an oath to me.”
Anora gasped, trying to pull her hand from his, only to have his fingers tighten. “And all will be required to renew their oaths at the time of our marriage.” He shot her a warning glance.
“Nay,” shouted the eldest son, drowning out the rumblings of the crowd. “You cannot mean to take a Saxon whore to wife.”
A collective gasp filled the hall as all eyes turned to FitzGillen.
“Silence!” the Norman roared, glaring at his son.
“You would mix the blood of Normans with that of Saxon peasants? ’Tis no more than I’d expect,” Royce snarled. His chair scraped the floor as he pushed away from the table and strode from the hall. Voices rose, filling the silence left in his wake.
The Norman bent, bringing her fingers to his lips and as they brushed over her knuckles, her legs trembled. “Do you value those men, I will have your cooperation in this,” he said quietly.
He had her cornered. Did she dispute his claim, Godwin, Harold and all the others would meet their deaths.
But what did it mean for her?
She pulled her hand from his and escaped to her room.
Shedding her wimple, she sat before the warmth of the brazier. How could she wed Edmund’s murderer?
Her shoulders slumped. How could she not?
Were it her life only she risked, she would resist. But she did not mistake the threat to her people were she not to consent to this marriage. But why did he wish to saddle himself with an unwanted Saxon wife?
A firm knock sounded at her door and she grabbed up her wimple and slid it over her head, adjusting the folds as she went to stand before the fire.
The door opened and he stood there, filling the opening and Anora bit back a gasp. He was a large man, exuding strength and determination. And she but a woman, her head barely coming to his chin. Did she truly believe
she could stand against this man and win?
She watched him as he silently entered the room, closing the door behind him ’Twas a practice conquering armies had used for centuries—that of the mixing of blood. But it did not require marriage.
She had overheard the conversations of his men and learned FitzGillen was the bastard of a high Norman lord. Mayhap he’d suffered for it and did not wish the same for any get of his.
And what would be her fate when he found out? Did she tell him now of her barrenness? Or later? He demanded her cooperation, but while he might gain hers, he would not gain God’s.
And he would not gain hers easily.
His gaze narrowed and Anora feared her thoughts showed on her face. His words endorsed her fears.
“This marriage will go forward and quickly. And with your cooperation.” He strode forward, his gaze traveling to the closed shutters then back to her.
Anora lifted her chin, stubbornly challenging him.
“Else you’ll witness the deaths of those in the dungeon.”
The word struck like a dagger into Anora’s heart. Nay, he would not. She looked into his hardened brown gaze and knew he would, did she rebel. Her shoulders slumped. It was well and truly done, then. The Normans controlled Fairhurst and all within and without.
A flicker of satisfaction glowed in her heart, and she smiled. “Do you think to mix the blood of Saxon and Norman with me, I fear your plans will be for naught.”
He canted his head, his gaze never wavering, a brittle smile lifting the corners of his lips. “Ah, but I will. For I consider that cooperation as well.”
Sweet Mary. He could not mean that did she not share his bed and beget a child, Sir Godwin and the others would die?
Suddenly, the lives of those she cared for depended on her childbearing ability.
Of which she had none.
Chapter Six
He closed the door and made his way to his room. The solution had burst upon him suddenly. Marriage was the only option left. He knew Anora would not go into the union willingly. Though his masculine pride was chafed at the fact, he shrugged it aside. Better to forfeit his ego than the peace he sought.
He pondered the idea of wedding the Saxon lady, turning it over in his mind for possible drawbacks as he gathered up his sword and headed out to join his men in training. Though he hadn’t given marriage much thought since losing Gyfton’s mother at his birth seventeen years ago, the idea did not displease him now.
Nor did Anora. He realized there must be a blending of cultures if peace were to be found in England. The opportunity to begin the healing was now; the woman would become his partner in this endeavor.
Gyfton fell into step beside him as he passed through the great hall. “How will the king feel about your marriage, Father?”
“’Tis what needs be done. He will understand.”
They stepped out into the inner bailey and he scanned the area for Royce. “Is Royce gone then?”
“Aye. Why does he hate women so?”
“’Tis a good question. One I do not have an answer to.”
The young man nodded and moved off, leaving Rosard to contemplate his son’s question.
His relationship with his eldest son had always been strained, at least since his return from a three-year absence when Royce was but a small child. Mayhap it was his mother’s death that brought the change.
His mind reached back some eighteen years.
He’d spent his time soldiering with William, leaving his young wife with their three-year-old son to go to Italy. Injured in battle, he’d remained behind to heal. His departure had been delayed several times at William’s request. Three years later, he finally returned.
When he met his six year-old son, the child was withdrawn, and an unexplainable pain shone in his blue eyes. The next morning when Marie, Royce’s mother, was found dead in the courtyard after leaping from her bedroom window, a quiet rage replaced the pain. Royce had resisted all of Rosard’s efforts to comfort him, screaming at him, “You killed her.”
To this day, Rosard didn’t understand the boy’s outburst. How was he responsible for her death? He’d been home just a day. Marie had been skittish during dinner, casting furtive glances around the hall. She’d excused herself early, pleading a headache.
Later when he’d knocked upon her door, her maid had turned him away, saying her lady was too ill for his company.
There was something amiss in his home.
He’d left Marie’s door, promising to get to the bottom of the situation in the morn.
But come the morn, Marie was dead, the castle in mourning and his son turned from him.
From the servants he learned that his half-brother had visited often during Rosard’s absence. He’d also been told that Gaspar had left quietly amid the bustle and confusion of his return. Was there a connection? Though he’d questioned the servants, they had assured him that nothing untoward had happened.
He and his wife had not shared a strong passion for one another, but still they got on well enough. She had blessed him with a son and had been a good mother. He could find no reason for the strain between them upon his return.
What was it that drove her to kill herself?
The unanswered question kept him from sleep the first few weeks. At first he thought it was his absence, but dismissed that. He was gone no more than any other warrior. And when he was home, he’d strived to be an attentive husband, seeing to her comfort and offering companionship. He had seen no signs of unhappiness.
He had failed her and he did not know how. He’d wondered if Royce knew something about her death. But even now, his son refused to talk about it. The wall of animosity he’d built kept father and son apart.
After this many years, he doubted he would ever know the reason for the man’s hostility. Best to push the thoughts aside.
* * * * *
Royce reined in his mount as he entered the forest. Allowing his horse to pick his way through the vegetation, he rubbed the tension from the back of his neck.
How could Rosard even consider marrying the Saxon? It made no sense to him. Did he want her in his bed, he had but to order her there. Did he want the cooperation of the Saxons, he had but to incite their fear. He shook his head. He did not understand the man.
“Ho there, Sir Royce. Mind yer way.”
He instinctively jerked on his reins, causing his horse to turn aside.
Glancing down at the old woman, he muttered, “You again.”
She cackled gleefully. “And who be ye looking for?”
“Peace and quiet.”
“Hah, a Norman searching fer that?” She shook her head and her wizened old face disappeared in the folds of her black scarf. “’Tis another miracle of God, then.”
She shuffled closer, bending backward from the waist and turning her entire upper body, she peered up at him. “Ye’ve a midge in yer mail, eh?”
“Away with you, Isabelle.” Royce shifted in his saddle. “I’ve much on my mind.”
Isabelle cackled again, and he longed to dismount and thrash the old woman.“And I’ve much to carry.” She pointed to a small stack of wood beside the path. “And ye’ve arrived just in time.” She toddled across the path, weaving her way through the trees.
Royce watched her go, determined not to help her again.“Well, come along, young Royce. I’ve need of me wood, ye see?”
Royce clenched the reins of his horse tighter.
“Nay, you gathered it, you can see it to your cottage.”
A rustle of leaves and the breaking of twigs met his reply.
Aye, he was in control, at least of this situation. He kneed his horse forward, glancing to where Isabelle had disappeared. Crazy old woman.
His horse whinnied and sidestepped. Jerking around, he found Isabelle standing in the road.
“God’s bones, woman. Where did you come from?” How had she managed to move so quickly?
“The wood, Sir Royce. Ye’d not let an old woman freeze
to death, now would ye?” She squinted up at him, her head held at an odd angle. “Or has that midge eaten out yer heart as well as yer common sense?”
That was it. Royce threw himself off his horse and grabbed Isabelle.
“Woman, you go too far this time.” Her arm was pathetically thin beneath his grip.
Isabelle jerked away from him and took several steps back. “Ye’ve a temper, young one. ’Tis going to see ye into trouble do ye not garner control.”
She stepped around the side of his horse and went to her pile of wood. Taking a few pieces, she left the path.
He watched her retreating form, his conscience weighing on him.
Surely if she could gather the wood, she could get it to her cottage. And what if he hadn’t come along? Then she certainly would have to do it herself. He was the conquering Norman, she but a lowly Saxon crone. He owed her nothing.
So why then was he picking up what remained of her wood and following her?
“Just put it beside the door, then.” Her crackly voice came from inside the cottage and Royce shook his head, letting the wood fall from his arms.
“I thank ye, young Royce.” She emerged from the cottage and Royce glanced at the flap of hide she’d somehow hung over the opening of the door.
“You need a proper door, else not only will the cold get in but a hungry animal as well.”
Isabelle glanced at the hide. “Aye, but see ye any doors growing in the forest?”
“I’ll see that you have one.”
Again, Isabelle squinted up at him, her blue eyes red-rimmed. “So what has yer temper set to boil, eh?”
“You were not at court today. Why?”
She shrugged. “I’ve no problems the Normans can solve.”
“What of your cottage? It has seen better times, I’m sure.”
“Aye, well, no doubt ye’re right. But I see to meself well enough.” She bent and picked up some of the wood he’d dropped and turned back to her cottage. “Is it the court that has ye grumpy this day? Or is this yer normal temperament?”
“And how would you feel were I to tell you that your lady is wedding Rosard FitzGillen?”
He heard the wood thump on the floor and Isabelle pulled the flap aside and glared at him. “Lady Anora?” She shook her head. “’Tis a bad jest, that.”
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