Siege

by Virginia Farmer

  Chapter Nine

  Anora burrowed deeper into the linens, curling up against the welcomed heat beside her. Sighing, she allowed herself to drift a moment, savoring the comforting warmth of the bed before opening her eyes.

  The lavender light of dawn stretched across the foot of the bed. Turning her head, she gasped as she met the gaze of the Norman. He gave her a lazy smile and reached for her. She scooted away from his warmth.

  “Where are you going, wife?” Shame washed over her as his sleep-roughened voice sent a tremor of desire through her.

  Appalled by her response to him and recalling the night before, Anora bit out, “’Tis morn.”

  “Aye.” He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her to him.

  “Sir, the sun rises.” She struggled against his hold, conscious of the hardness of his body.

  His deep chuckle filled the silence of the room. “As do other things, wife.” He nuzzled her neck, feathering kisses from her neck to her jaw.

  She gasped, giving him a hard push and, rolling out of bed, she snatched her hair lest he try to trap her with it.

  Cold air hit her naked skin. She glanced down and squeaked, the warmth of her blush spreading from her face to her chilled body. Snatching the tunic from the foot of the bed, Anora clutched it to her and cast the Norman a glare.

  “I cannot lie about, sir.” ’Twas her fondest wish that the consummation of their vows would be the last time they shared a bed. Liar, her mind shouted. She had never experienced the like before. Did not even know her body capable of such passion. Her face heated, and she looked away.

  “Ah, sweeting, I better than anyone, know that you do not lie about.” He arched his brows.

  Anora huffed, ignoring his sly innuendo. “I have much to tend to.”

  The Norman rose from the bed with cat-like grace. She focused on his face lest her gaze wander down to that which made him a man and shamed her for her response, both now and last eve.

  “Aye, that you do, Anora.” He moved toward her and she took a step back, dropping her gaze.

  “Sweet Mother of Mary.” Heat burned her cheeks again and she snapped her gaze back to his face. “Sir, cover yourself.” She turned around.

  “As you have?” He chuckled. “‘Tis a tempting view you offer, wife.”

  “Have you no manners at all?” With angry jerks, she donned her tunic. Pulling the length of her hair from beneath it, she turned around to face him, determined to ignore his state of undress.

  The male form was nothing new to her. In the past, it had been her duty to bathe the male guests of Fairhurst Castle. But no man had stood before her, blatantly exposing what God had given him.

  And God had been more than generous with the Norman.

  She closed her eyes and clamped her teeth together, gathering control of her errant thoughts. Bringing her chin up, she opened her eyes and her gaze collided with his chest. She sucked air into her lungs.

  Aye, she’d seen a man’s body before, but none had she known with such intimacy.

  Silver strands shone among the dark hair riding the muscled contours of the Norman’s broad torso. Anora swallowed, recalling the feel of his chest against hers. Her nipples tightened, pushing against the material of her tunic.

  She groaned, blinking back the tears burning her eyes. Nothing was within her control, not the castle, the people, her life…not even her body, ’twould seem.

  And in that moment she despised him and herself.

  She pulled her gaze up to meet his. From the warmth shining in his eyes, Anora knew he’d noticed her reaction. A self-confident smile tipped the corners of his mouth and he stepped closer.

  Catching her breath, she brought her hand up in a staying motion. “Nay.” The word came out as she exhaled. She braved much to deny him. ’Twas within his rights to demand she perform her wifely duties. Or beat her if she resisted.

  She backed away from him and he stopped, canting his head.

  “Nay?” His eyes rounded in surprise. “Did you not find pleasure last eve?”

  His question slapped her in the face, and she stared with shock into his dark gaze. Aye, she’d found an overwhelming pleasure in his arms. Her body still hummed with the sensations. Never had Edmund…She gasped.

  Here before her was Edmund’s murderer, and she’d lain with him. Not only lain with him, but lost herself in the joining.

  Shame filled her belly, rising to her throat. Resolutely, she pushed it down and stiffened her back.

  Had she not given him enough? Was he not satisfied that she’d married him, given her oath and betrayed Edmund?

  He wanted more?

  Rosard watched the emotions play across his wife’s face. He knew the moment she recalled the consummation of their vows and the pleasure they’d experienced. His body reacted to her. One night would not be enough. God’s knees, ’twould take a lifetime to quench his desire for her.

  And he knew the precise moment she recalled her Saxon husband. Not just from the gasp that escaped her lips, but the blanching of her cheeks. He had seen the expression before, but not after a night of lovemaking.

  Nay, other Saxon widows had given him the same glare, holding him and every other Norman responsible for their plight.

  Mayhap they were right. Rosard was not exempt from the guilt of taking another’s life at the order of his sovereign. But many Norman widows grieved for the loss of their husbands at the hands of the Saxons.

  Giving him a wide berth, his wife stepped around him. He thought of ordering her back to their bed, but she was a prideful woman and ’twould do him little good. Nay, he would be better served if he coaxed her back to their bed. ’Twould leave her pride intact.

  His gaze swept over her body, the cloth of her shift clinging to her curves. The hardened peaks of her breasts begged for his touch. The gentle flair of her hips beckoned to him, reminding him of the smooth warmth of her skin.

  She shifted, breaking into his pleasant thoughts and recalling him to the moment. He focused on the thin garment covering her. “Where is your tunic?”

  “In my room.”

  “Surely you don’t go about the castle dressed in nothing more than a shift?”

  Rosard glanced around, noting only his clothing hanging on the pegs. His gaze came full circle, meeting hers.

  She shrugged. “All were below.”

  He could demand that she move her things into his room. He rubbed the back of his neck. He tired of the constant confrontations with her.

  He pulled a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Others may be about now.”

  Watching as she turned and fled his room, he thought of another way to get what he desired, though he would still pay the price of her temper. But that would be later.

  * * * * *

  “Good morn, my lady.” Godwin greeted her at the bottom of the stairs a little later. He offered a tentative smile. “How fair you?” He looked her over from head to toe before meeting her gaze.

  “I survived.”

  He nodded.

  Her shoulders slumped and she shook her head. “What’s to become of us, Godwin?”

  “We will live on.”

  “But how? How can we surrender to these Normans?”

  He touched her arm. “My lady, the battle is at end. We have lost. To continue fighting makes no sense. ’Tis time to move forward.”

  Her eyebrows lifted. “’Tis surrender, all the same.”

  “’Tis surviving. We must survive or the Saxon traditions, our lineage will perish.”

  She pulled in a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Aye.” Opening her eyes, she looked at Godwin. “’Twill not be easy.”

  “Naught in life is.” He turned to leave, but stopped. Looking over his shoulder he asked, “You are fine? He did not abuse you?”

  A smile trembled on her lips. “I am fine, thank you.” She did not deny abuse, for in her heart she felt abused—abused by her traitorous body, not the Norman.

  He
nodded and left.

  She made her way to the kitchens and found Merton and his helpers bustling around. Smiles, even at this early hour, stretched the mouths of those busy with the baking. Fresh loaves of bread sat cooling on the large table in the center of the room, their aroma perfuming the air. Her stomach growled.

  Merton turned from the hearth. “My lady!” He wiped his hands on the cloth tied around his substantial waist. “How fare you this morn?”

  “I am fine, Merton.” She offered a small smile and let her gaze travel around the room. “You have been busy, I see.”

  “Aye.” He glanced around, then leaned closer to her. “Normans do not know how to cook, my lady.” He moved back and grinned.

  Thinking back to the meal the evening before, she said, “Yes, most assuredly. ’Twas not fit to eat, I fear.”

  “My lord brought forth supplies. Our storeroom is full.” He fairly beamed. “Here, my lady.” The cook handed her a thick slice of fresh bread and a bit of cheese. “You must be hungry.”

  Thankfully, he did not comment on Anora’s absence from the morning meal.

  “My thanks.” With a quick nod, she left the kitchens and wandered into the gardens nearby.

  As she munched on her bread and cheese, she considered the past eight months. Her life had changed so very much during that time, but no more so than over the past day. ’Twas time to accept that the battle was won and not by the Saxons. Godwin had the right of it. ’Twas their duty now to survive.

  Leaving the gardens behind, she turned the corner of the castle and nodded to her ever-present guard. The man returned her greeting, but then turned and left.

  She watched him go, wondering for a moment if he expected her to await his return. Several women from the village approached, and she forgot him as they regaled her of the Norman’s exploits.

  ’Twas as before, she thought, as a widow told her how the Norman had convinced her son to work the land as had the boy’s father. They praised his generosity and the seeds he’d provided.

  The villagers returned to their tasks, and she made her way to the small shed beside the stables in search of her digging tool and a basket. The medicinal herbs needed replenishing.

  As she left the shed, raised masculine voices in the stables drew her attention. Hearing her name, she slowed her step.“Lady Anora has given her oath.” She recognized the Norman’s voice.

  “Her oath. Hah. ’Tis but empty words.”

  “Think you a woman has no honor, Royce?”

  “She is but a woman, after all.” The last word dripped with contempt.

  “And she is my wife and commands your respect, son.” Suppressed anger fired the Norman’s response. “She is a good steward both of the castle and the people living within its protection. She stood against a Norman siege when a man of less valor would have surrendered. Nay, Royce, do not underestimate the weaker sex, for they are stronger and more honorable in many ways than a man.”

  Shock held Anora immobile. The Norman had taken up for her before his son? And he believed women to have honor and strength?

  She hurried on her way, the Norman’s words replaying in her mind.

  Pride had been evident in every word the Norman had spoken. Could he be proud of her? ’Twas a unique notion, one that she had never entertained before.

  As she left the inner bailey behind, she glanced around for her guard. Where was the man? With a start, she realized that no one paid her any heed. She quickened her pace, eager to test this new freedom.

  Mayhap being the Norman’s wife afforded her the freedom denied her since the end of the siege.

  She’d wondered when giving her oath the day before if it truly held meaning. Today was proof that at least the Norman placed a value on her word.

  Anora squared her shoulders and continued through the gate and stopped after she crossed the drawbridge. Surveying the village, ’twas hard to believe anything had changed. The villein went about the work of daily life. The air filled with Saxon greetings, laughter of children, and the jangle of harnesses. Even the animals hailed the new morn.

  She took the path leading to the woods a short distance from the castle. A shiver ran up her arms as she stepped into the shade afforded by the canopy of trees. She breathed deeply of the woodland scents; pine, loam, and wild mint, brought peace to her, missing these long days past.

  Wandering the trails through the forest, she stopped now and then to harvest herbs and roots. The basket on her arm became heavy and she made her way to a sunny clearing. ’Twas one of her favorite spots. She settled herself amid the sun-warmed boulders in the center of the glade, the basket at her feet. A shiver of pleasure shook her as the heat from the rocks penetrated her tunic, filling her with a comforting glow.

  Leaning back against a large boulder, Anora closed her eyes and tipped her face up to the sun, soaking in the warming rays. Allowing herself to relax, she pushed aside everything but the feel of the light breeze caressing her cheeks and ruffling her wimple. The fragrance of wildflowers brushed her senses accompanied by the merry chirping song of the birds in the trees.

  Rosard stepped from the shadows of the stable catching a glimpse of a familiar drab brown tunic. Squinting against the morning sun, he watched Anora disappear through the portcullis, a basket in her hand. No doubt she went to the village, he thought. Since receiving her oath, Rosard returned her guards to their normal duties, allowing his wife the freedom of the castle and village.

  Recalling her tunic, Rosard turned to the keep. He would go through his trunks. Somewhere within them he would find the length of green material he longed to see Anora wearing. And mayhap there would be other things as well.

  Some time later, he watched as a servant brought Anora’s chest into his room and placed it at the foot of the bed. A maid entered, carrying the rest of his wife’s things. Once she left and the door closed, he placed three lengths of cloth atop her chest. The green would match her eyes and the deep blue would bring out the fire in her hair. And the white silk and linen would make a comfortable undertunic. He’d also found a fine gold girdle, it lay nestled atop the cloth. ’Twas the perfect bride gift.

  He rode out later, hoping to return Anora to the keep, eager as a green lad to see the look on his lady’s face when she beheld his gift.

  The thought of her soft, feminine curves pressed against him as he carried her back to the keep was an added incentive, he thought with a smile. ’Twas a wonder they’d managed to awaken this morn, so busy were they last eve. Rosard grinned. Aye, Lady Anora was a woman of great passion—a passion he anticipated exploring again and soon if he answered his body’s demands.

  He found her on a boulder, her face tipped to the sky, the sunlight pooling around her. Dismounting a distance from her, he tethered his horse and approached her quietly. It wasn’t until he stood beside her, that he realized she slept.

  He watched her a long moment, recalling her passion of last eve and her anger this morn. Her situation was not an easy one, but she made it more difficult with her resistance. Even Sir Godwin had accepted him as Lord of Fairhurst. Rosard had done all in his power to combine the Norman and Saxon traditions, hoping to make Fairhurst a peaceful home.

  He did not regret wedding the lady. He could think of no woman who commanded his respect, as did she. Anora was a woman of strength and pride, dedicated to her people.

  But damned stubborn.

  Rosard turned from Anora and gazed out over the treetops, just making out one of the crenellated towers of the castle.

  In a conversation with Godwin, he’d learned that Edmund had traveled extensively, visiting not only Normandy, but also Spain and Byzantium. He’d become enamored of the castles in those far-flung places and the desire to build had overtaken him. Of a certainty, Edmund had learned much of castle construction from his travels. And he’d applied that knowledge to the building of Fairhurst.

  He glanced back at his wife. If he could but hold on to his patience, mayhap she would see he did but what his
sovereign commanded. If God were merciful, she would come to accept that which she could not change and embrace the new life offered to her.

  And accept him as her husband…without reserve.

  Rosard snorted. ’Twas much to pray for. For now he would settle for the cessation of her hostility.

  He glanced at Anora. How sweet and malleable she appeared in sleep. And how beautiful.

  He studied her closer, his gaze tracing the faint lines at the corners of her eyes that bore proof she’d known life. Good and bad experiences were etched on her face, evidence of her character. He recalled the threads of silver shining amid her long golden tresses, now covered by her veil.

  Hers was a mature beauty.

  His gaze followed the lines of her body in the old brown woolen tunic. ’Twas not the body of a young, coddled woman.

  Nay, hers was the body of a woman who had worked beside her people, building strength in her muscles. Though she, like the rest of the Saxons at Fairhurst, was too thin by far, the foodstuffs he brought would see everyone’s bellies full.

  He returned to her face.

  She must have sensed his perusal for her eyes opened and with a gasp she sat up. Wariness replaced the surprise in her green gaze.

  “I had thought it too much to hope that I would be allowed to roam without a guard.” She looked him up and down. “Have you nothing better to do than follow me?”

  Rosard gave an inward sigh. ’Twould seem the battle was once again engaged. He clamped down on his patience.

  “I do not follow you. I but wondered where you’d gone. I only sought to assure your safety.”

  “My safety?” She gave a harsh laugh, scrambling off the boulder. “There is no safety in England now.”

  “Wife, what is it you crave?” Rosard glared at Anora, his patience dangling by a thread.

  “I would have my life back.” She raised her chin in the air.

  “Your life back? You have your life. Each morn you rise to see a new sun, you work alongside your people. Each day you eat and sleep, to awaken the next day.” Rosard shook his head. “I did not take your life, though ’twas within my power to do so.”