“’Tis no jest, Isabelle. They are set to wed.” Disgust pushed the words from his throat.
The flap fell back and Royce heard Isabelle shuffling around inside, mumbling as she moved about. A moment later, she reappeared. “Is not that the way of it? I am surprised he’s bothering to marry her, though.”
“’Tis my point. Does he want her in his bed, he has but to order her there.” Royce bent down and stacked the remaining wood against the side of the cottage. “He does it for the oath of fealty.”
“He thinks to gain the oaths by wedding the lady?”
“Aye. He should put to death those unwilling to give their oath. ’Twould bring a quicker end to the revolt.”
Isabelle stood back regarding Royce closely. He stood up, forcing her to crane her neck.
“Ye’d see to the deaths of all Saxon were it yer choice, eh?”
Royce remained silent, his gaze traveling around the clearing of Isabelle’s hut.
“Then who would ye rule?”
’Twas the same question his father had put to him before. But Royce had no patience for the coddling of the conquered people. Could they not see the Normans were here to stay?
“And would ye just roll over and allow the Saxons to take over Normandy?”
He turned to Isabelle, anger simmering within him. “No Saxon could take Normandy. ’Tis folly to even think it.” He met her gaze. “Do you accept the Norman rule?”
She shook her head. “I’m an old woman. What care I who sees to the land? I care not if the Normans strike me dead.” She turned from him, entering her home. “I’m already dead.”
He barely heard her last words. With a shrug, he turned and left.
Crazy old Saxon crone.
Chapter Seven
’Tis a mockery, Anora thought, standing before the chapel doors three days later, her hand wrapped in the Norman’s warm grasp. The morning sun hid behind gray clouds. ’Twould seem God knew the travesty they practiced this day and frowned upon it.
A cold, Norman priest officiated, and for this Anora remained grateful. Had Father Stephen performed the service, she doubted her ability to withstand the flood of memories of another wedding. But Father Stephen had left with Edmund and, like her husband, the priest had not returned.
The Norman’s deep, masculine voice pulled her from her thoughts and sent a tingle through her body as he repeated his vows. She stared at the hand holding hers in a warm, firm grasp, silently cursing her reaction to the enemy. What was wrong with her that her body reacted to the mere sound of his voice, the touch of his hand? It must be fatigue, else he would illicit only loathing from her. He shifted and heat radiated from him, sending yet another shiver through her body.
’Tis the cold, she decided, surely it had naught to do with his nearness. Glancing down at his large, booted feet, she wondered what kind of man she married. Not a speck of dirt adorned his boots. Everything about the man was neat and orderly. His self-confidence fit him like a fine suit of mail. She fought the lure of his quiet strength, pushing aside fatigue and the sudden urge to surrender the fight.
The priest cleared his throat and she glanced up, meeting the Norman’s knowing gaze. She tugged at her hand, but he tightened his grasp and sent her a warning glare.
She turned to the priest, meeting his cold look. She swallowed against the rising anger, recalling the threat to her people did she not wed with this man. Anora repeated her vows, filling each word with her anger and disdain.
“To honor and obey, ’til death us do part.” The priest prompted when she stopped.
“To hon—” She bit her lip and the Norman squeezed her hand. Turning to look at him, she ground out, “Honor, ’til death us do part.”
“Honor and obey,” the priest repeated, his cold voice dragging her attention from the fierce look heating the Norman’s eyes.
“I will not pledge—”
“You risk the lives of all, my lady.”
’Twas his voice, tight with anger that reminded her of her purpose here.
“Honor and…obey,” she said and then mumbled, “At times. ’Til death us do part.” And pray God his death would come sooner than later.
Cool metal chilled her skin as the Norman slid a golden ring upon her finger, trapping her in this farce of a marriage. He folded her hand in his, the warmth of his grasp banishing the coldness of the ring. His thumb traced a lazy circle over the top of her hand.
So it was done. She’d plighted her troth with this Norman. Closing her eyes, Anora swallowed back the self-loathing clogging her throat, wishing she had been stronger—found a way to prevent all of this.
Her eyes flew open when the Norman released her hand, cupped her shoulders and turned her toward him.
“The kiss of peace.” He whispered the words as his mouth descended on hers. Her blood roared in her veins and she held perfectly still, caught between fear and fascination as the warmth of his mouth enveloped hers. ’Twas a chaste kiss, but it shocked her with its intensity. Her heart beat faster, her breath caught in her throat and the world seemed to tilt.
The Norman stepped away, a satisfied smile stretching his lips.
Anger burned away the shock of her response and she wiped at her mouth. The smile leached from his lips and he arched a brow.
Angling her chin up, she turned and followed the priest into the chapel to celebrate mass. She resisted the urge to glance over her shoulder at her people to see their reaction to this union, to see if they noticed her response to the Norman’s kiss. But no, she thought, raising her chin. She must appear firm and in control to them.
As she knelt on the cold stone floor, her mind reached back to the day so long ago when she’d exchanged vows with Edmund.
Dear Edmund.
’Twas not a love match, for in truth she knew no one who’d married for that flimsy emotion. Nay, Edmund had done her the favor, for he’d gained nothing upon their union. She was orphaned and penniless, but Edmund, a longtime friend of her father’s had honored his vow to care for her upon the death of her parents.
Over the years, she’d developed an affection for Edmund—his gentle ways, his calmness in the face of the Norman invasion.
’Twas his honor that brought him down, for he’d kept his word to his neighbor and fought alongside the man to protect his land. And both had died.
Tears pricked her eyes and she closed them. The man beside her was so opposite Edmund. Even the heat emanating from his body was overpowering, unlike Edmund’s more quiet, subtle presence.
By the time the priest finished the mass, Anora had gathered her composure, her heart beat normally again, and she was relaxed.
And then the Norman took her elbow, and it started all over again. Her nerves were likened to snap were this to continue. She tried to ease away from his grasp. He acquiesced, only to drape his arm around her shoulder and her knees weakened.
How could she react this strongly to him? What was wrong with her that her blood heated, her heart thumped stronger and—she gasped—her nipples tightened when he touched her thusly?
They stopped on the steps of the chapel and faced the people who’d witnessed their joining. The deafening silence held her immobile. No one, not Saxon or Norman, approved of this match. She glanced up at Rosard, a muscle flexed in his jaw and he dropped his arm from her shoulder and took her hand. He met her gaze, and with a gentle tug led her down the steps.
Anora felt displaced, as if she watched the scene from a distance. The Norman turned loose her hand and the witnesses fell into step, following them to the hall. A breeze kicked up, swirling over the ground, lifting dirt into the air.
Someone coughed behind her and the silence broke; someone whispered and she fought the urge to glance back. Instead, she focused her gaze straight ahead.
She angled away from the Norman, putting a bit of distance between them. But the dratted man refused to allow her even that and, stepping close to her, he whispered, “There is no escape, wife. We are wed. William is ki
ng. ’Tis best to simply accept it and move on.”
She was only too aware that her choices were gone. She knew too there was naught she could do.
But to accept this Norman as her lord and husband? “You ask much this day.”
Rosard watched his new wife as they returned to the castle. She was a woman of great pride and stubbornness. He understood time was needed for her to come to terms with his rule. And though he was more than willing to give her the time she needed, her people must accept him now.
“’Tis prudent to obey me.” The woman beside him snorted. He pulled a deep breath into his lungs then let it out. “Have done with your rebellion. Peace and prosperity are yours to have, do you choose it.”
Her lips tightened into a straight line and she quickened her pace.
He girded himself for the ordeal to come—that of the oath of fealty. Did Lady Anora give hers, he felt sure the rest would follow. But how to gain her oath? That was the problem he struggled with as they approached the great hall.
Upon entering, Rosard inhaled deeply and frowned, cursing the need to imprison the Saxon cook. ’Twas apparent from the smell of the food waiting to be served that the celebration would be dampened by the meal. He glanced at his wife, whose nose wrinkled, and he had the strangest urge to place a kiss there.
He shook the idea from his head. Mayhap he should call for her oath before they ate, for surely did the woman taste the food from the kitchen she would accuse him of trying to poison her this time.
Once everyone found their seats, the servants brought in the food and the priest said the blessing.
“And may the union of the Earl and Countess of Fairhurst be fruitful.”
Lady Anora’s head shot up and fear crossed her gaze. Rosard wondered at it. She was a woman of experience, why would she fear the marriage bed?
He pushed the thought aside for now and glanced down at their trencher and the food there.
He poked at the bread. “’Tis better suited to the trebuchet than the table,” he muttered, eliciting a wry chuckle from his wife. “The soup is watery, devoid of spices and the meat is either under-done or resembles the cinders from the kitchen fires.” A snort this time.
He glanced at his wife and found her soaking the bread in the soup. He searched their trencher for a morsel of meat to offer her, but found none.
“I fear, Lady Anora, that Merton’s efforts at poisoning us would taste better than my cook’s attempts to feed us.”
The lady choked on the piece of bread she’d just put in her mouth.
“Mayhap we should feed this to the hogs and bring Merton forth, else we’ll all starve.”
She looked up from the table and met his gaze.“Do you give me your oath, I will bring forth all those in the dungeon, and we will dine on palatable food this eve.”
Lady Anora dropped her gaze and remained silent.
“God’s bones, woman, have done with this resistance.” Rosard stopped, took several deep breaths and continued in a calmer tone. “I would that we get on with restoring Fairhurst and her people. But nothing can begin without your oath and that of your people.”
She met his gaze again and he saw rebellion spark in the depths of her eyes.
Rosard sighed. “Would you rather King William demand your oath? For if so, I can tell you, wife, do you not give it with alacrity, your head will leave your shoulders as will anyone’s who does not come forth quickly.”
“Wife? I am no true wife to you and well you know it. I will do as you say for the sake of my people, but let us have honesty between us.”
“You will give your oath, then?”
She nodded and straightened her spine, but her eyes had turned a dull green.
He would not lose this opportunity. He signaled to one of the guards. “Bring forth Sir Godwin and the others.”
Be fruitful, the priest had said? For the first time, she was glad of her barrenness. The Norman’s wishes would come to naught.
At least that one. She was now his wife.
That one word sent her nerves into a frenzy. Gripping her hands to still their quaking, Anora mentally gave herself a shake. She was no untried virgin. She knew well the ways of a husband and wife.
So why then did her face heat and her stomach twist into knots at the prospect of this day’s end?
The murmur of voices floated around the room. She glanced from beneath her lashes at the Norman beside her, wondering at his age.
Somewhere in his fortieth year, she thought, taking in the silver in his long hair. Her gaze traveled from his face down the length of his arm to his hand, curled around a cup of wine. A moment of morbid fascination held her as she counted the tiny scars marring the weathered skin. How many battles had he seen?
Edmund’s face flashed in her mind and she looked away from the sight of the Norman’s hands.
“Wine?” His low voice filled her ear and the heat from his body warmed her as he leaned closer, moving the cup to her.
She lifted it and, turning it so her lips would not touch the same spot as his, she took a sip.
He reached out, taking the cup from her hand, his fingers closed over hers.
As she pulled her fingers away, her gaze caught on his hand.
Sweet Mary, the very hand that had killed her husband would be turned on her. A flood of true panic rushed over her, making her dizzy. Her stomach tightened and the wine soured.
Resolutely, she pushed the images from her mind. She’d not come this far to succumb to fear. She would find a way to survive this.
The Norman had not shown the cruelty of his countrymen. He could have sent her to a convent or simply turned her out and with time, the people of Fairhurst would have settled under his rule.
Why then did he marry her? Why take such a step?
She sighed. She had no answers and no doubt would never hear any from him were she to ask.
At the heavy tread of footsteps, she glanced around the room as Sir Godwin and the others entered the hall.
Godwin stood before the dais, drops of water sparkled in his beard and his damp hair was combed away from his face. Anora smiled, glancing from him to the others standing behind him. They all looked well and had even taken the time to wash before coming into the hall.
Godwin nodded his head, the look of concern filling his gaze.
“Sir Godwin.” The Norman rose, pulling Anora up beside him.
Godwin shifted his gaze to the man beside Anora. “Aye?”
“I bring you here so that you and all of those of Fairhurst may bear witness to my lady wife’s oath of fealty.”
Anora’s knees quaked.
Godwin turned a questioning look to her. “My lady?”
The blood rushed from Anora’s face, leaving her dizzy and numb with the import of the Norman’s words. She glanced around the hall meeting the dismayed gazes of her people. The Normans looked relieved, while Royce was furious and Gyfton simply smiled encouragingly.
Guiding Anora around the table, the Norman faced Godwin. “So, Sir Godwin, your oath to Lady Anora has become an oath to me and my liege lord, King William.”
The bench she and the Norman shared was brought around and placed before the dais.
The Norman sat.
“Lady Anora,” he said in a low voice as Anora stood before him, her back to Sir Godwin and those in the hall. “You will give me your oath.” He gently tugged her hand and Anora tried to withdraw it from his grasp. “My lady, not but an hour ago you gave your vow to obey. Is your word so weak?”
Anger flared in Anora and she glanced down, lest he see the fire in her eyes. He implied that she was weak. “And how long were you forced to besiege Fairhurst?” she hissed for his ears only.
“Aye, a battle well fought, but lost. A good leader knows when to lay down her sword and do what’s best for her people.” His breath feathered over her cheek as he leaned close. “’Tis one of those times you should obey my request, for the good of all.” His words were for her alone.
&n
bsp; His praise surprised her, as did the admiring glint in his eyes. And she finally recognized she but fought a war already lost.
“I will have your oath to protect and care for the people of Fairhurst; that none shall suffer under your rule.”
“Aye, you will have my oath.”
Anora knelt before the Norman, her heart beating erratically within her chest.
She jerked when he took both her hands in his. The air sizzled between them. Meeting his gaze, she swallowed at the spark lighting his eyes and the smile that teased the corner of his mouth.
Anora gave her oath in a shaky voice, stumbling over the words vowing her fealty to William of Normandy.
The Norman leaned forward, his hands on her shoulders. “Well done, my lady wife. Well done.” He whispered the words as he kissed first one cheek and then the other, his beard tickling her skin.
Rising, Anora sat beside him and received the oaths of both Normans and Saxons.
And then the Norman knelt before her and in a clear, unwavering voice gave his oath to protect and defend the people of Fairhurst. He promised to be a just lord and put the good of the people before his.
With the oaths given, the people in the hall gradually dispersed, returning to their work.
’Twas done and naught could undo it. Best she return to her work. Mayhap ’twould serve to take her mind from the events of this day.
Anora glanced around the nearly empty hall, noting the floor showing through the rushes. Much had been ignored in the keep since the Norman’s invasion of the castle.
While she had been locked away in her room, her people had rebelled in the only way they knew how…by barely performing their jobs.
Shame lay upon her like the morning mist. No matter that the war was won by the Normans, the keep should never have been neglected. ’Twas a stain upon Edmund’s memory to so mistreat the castle he had built with such love.
She met Joseph’s gaze and nodded. He stepped up. “My lady?”
“Joseph, see that the tables are cleaned and cleared and the rushes changed.”
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