“Aye.” His wife nodded her head vigorously. “You took my life.” She held up her hand, staying his response. “You took my home, my people and my husband. You’ve taken my way of life, my heritage.”
“God’s toes, Anora.” Rosard ran his hand through his hair. “Think you I have not tried to make this easy for you? Nay, do not answer. Hear me well, wife.” He started pacing before the rocks.“Know you the stories of the Norman occupation of Saxon holdings?” He glanced at her and she nodded. “Have I done any of those things?”
She opened her mouth, but he cut off her reply. “I showed mercy upon you and your people, even in the face of deceit. I have tried to meld our two customs together to make the change more palatable, but at every turn you challenge me.”
“And would you do less were I the conqueror?”
Her question stopped his pacing and he looked at her. “I would know when the battle was lost and do all possible to ensure the safety of those in my care. I would adapt.”
She laughed then.
“You find my reply humorous?”
“Aye, my lord. The notion of you adapting is quite comical.”
He tugged at his beard. “To look at me, would you assume I were Norman or Saxon?” He took several steps in her direction. “Look you well, my lady. Can you tell me in truth that I have not adapted?”
Her laughter stopped, and she canted her head. He stood motionless before her perusal, praying his body would not respond to the softening of her gaze as she noted his hair and beard, then cast her eyes lower to his chest and then to his legs.
A telltale blush tinged her cheeks and she bit her lip before bringing her gaze up to meet his. “Hair and beard does not a Saxon make, sir.”
Rosard growled, frustration snapping the thread of his patience. “I had thought you an intelligent woman, Anora. I trusted that you could see my effort to bring peace to Fairhurst. If peace is not to be had, ’twill be at your choosing.” He took several steps toward his mount, stopped and turned. “But know this, my patience is not unending, and I will have peace with you or without you.” He leveled a glare on her. “And at this moment, ’twould seem the easier without you.”
Chapter Ten
Anora watched the Norman ride off, the sun sparking off the silver streaks in his hair. She nibbled on her lower lip.
She stared at his broad shoulders. A longing to bask in his protection, to allow him to shoulder her problems, weakened her knees. She leaned against the boulder, dragging her gaze away.
She did not think he meant to send her away, though she did not mistake his waning patience. She understood too, that he would not tolerate her rebellion much longer.
What then?
Anora sighed, bending down she plucked a yellow wildflower, twirling the stem.
The Norman was right, and it galled her.
He had made every effort to blend the Norman and Saxon cultures. The people fared well under his rule. He was proving a good lord to Fairhurst. He cared for the people, whether villein, knight, servant, Saxon or Norman.
But that alone could not atone for the killing of Edmund. And that was something she could not put aside.
Still, how could she find him so attractive? How could she find such pleasure in his arms? What was wrong with her? Had she no more loyalty to Edmund than that?
And what would happen when the Norman found her barren?
She’d not seen him lose his temper, nor had he exacted revenge on those he’d conquered. But would he see her inability to bear children as yet another rebellion? Would this expend the last of his patience?
Turning from her thoughts, she walked across the clearing, attempting to outdistance the questions pecking at her mind.
But they stubbornly refused to leave her in peace.
Images of the night before plagued her and memories of the Norman’s touch upon her body heated her blood anew. ’Twas unlike anything she’d ever experienced before, this joining of man and woman. Her face heated even as warmth pooled low in her stomach.
In the cool shelter of the trees, Anora slowed her pace, inhaling the soothing scents of the forest and resolutely blocking the disturbing images and the feelings they provoked.
She wandered the woods, losing herself in the serenity of the forest. The sound of tumbling water caught her attention.
“Gracious,” Anora mumbled reaching the stream. She’d never walked this far before. She must be some distance from the castle for the stream formed the southern-most boundary of Fairhurst land.
As Anora turned from the stream to return home, the murmur of voices reached her.
Did the Norman patrol this far from the castle? The voices became more distinct.
Instinctively, Anora ducked down concealing herself amid the thick growth of ferns and grass.
“How far to Fairhurst?”
“Less than an hour’s ride by the road, my lord. Are you certain of your plans?”
“Aye. We’ve ridden hard the last three days. The men need their rest if they are to be effective in battle tomorrow.”
Anora swallowed a gasp. Yet another fight? Were these Normans not finished with war yet? Once the Saxons were vanquished, did they fight amongst themselves?
“I will have Fairhurst.”
“But did not the king—”
“’Twas my efforts that brought it to William, and he should have entrusted the title and estate to me.”
“But my lord, the king gave it—”
“Enough. If you’ve no more backbone than an old woman, begone. I am the one who put down the revolt of the Saxons. ’Tis mine by right of conquest.”
There was a long pause. Anora’s nerves hummed with tension, and confusion clouded her thoughts. ’Twas FitzGillen who could make the claim of conquest, not this man. FitzGillen had brought down her husband. Why else would the wounded Fairhurst soldier whisper the name with his last dying breath?
“Do we lay siege to the castle, then?”
This question snapped Anora’s attention back to the men. “Nay, I think not. ‘Twould take too long. I’ve the location of a secret entrance. We shall enter the castle, locate and kill Rosard and his sons. The Saxons are a conquered people. What care they who rules them now?”
Fear held Anora immobile. Fairhurst was going to be attacked. She must warn them.
She remained hidden until the forest fell silent. Chancing a look, she rose up and peered across the river. She could see no one.
Hunching down, she silently inched her way from the thicket.
When she felt it safe, she stood up and began to run, weaving through the brush and trees.
Adrenaline fueled her legs, her heart thundered against her ribs, her lungs burned, but she kept running.
Above the pounding in her chest, Anora heard the ominous thud of footsteps behind her.
Not daring to look, she grabbed up her skirts and ran harder, ignoring the catch in her side and the pain in her lungs.
Her pursuer was close behind, she could hear his labored breathing over his footfall. Putting her hand out in front of her, she cut between two trees, grasping the thin, low-hanging branch of one. She pushed it out of her way, holding on to it for a brief moment before letting it snap back.
The satisfying slap of the branch was followed by a masculine grunt.
A moment later, she was knocked to the ground, the air rushed from her lungs.
Jerked to her feet, her wrists held in a steely grip, Anora met the glare of a ferret-faced Norman.
“Going somewhere, wench?”
She recognized the voice from the stream and her blood ran cold.
* * * * *
Rosard held Anora’s basket, his heart thumping dully in his ears.
Where was she? He scanned the clearing, noting the path of trampled grass heading into the forest to the south.
Guiding his mount, Rosard followed the tracks. He entered the quiet woods, his head down, the basket dangling from his fingers. The gentle plod of his horse pu
nctuated his progress.
Did she search for more herbs? The weight of the basket made him shake his head. ’Twas full, and she had stopped to rest at the boulders in the glade.
Guilt gnawed at his conscience, his last words to her hitting him in the face.
’Twould be easier without you.
Did she leave then? Was she now trying to make her way to a convent? ’Twas dangerous for a Saxon woman alone on the road. Though peace had been proclaimed, there were many Normans still craving battle, and if no Saxon warrior appeared, a woman would serve. He’d seen it many times and stopped a few Normans from butchering women and children.
But Anora was unlike other women. She would fight—she had fought. ’Twas not likely that she would run from his unkind words.
Nay, she would not flee.
He stopped, slid from his saddle and dropped down to focus on the faint prints. Ah, there, he could make out the shape of Anora’s shoes.
He followed her tracks as she wandered with no apparent destination. He straightened and followed them farther into the forest.
Did she search for something? Or did she wander the woods, plotting rebellion against him? He chuckled.
Aye, she would do such. He sighed. Somehow he had to find the word or deed that would bring Anora to his side.
A short time later the hairs on the back of his neck stood up and Rosard paused, listening intently.
The eerie silence of the woods sent a chill of foreboding along his spine. ’Twas too quiet here, he thought, straining to hear the sounds of birds, the rustle of small animals. The silence was undisturbed.
Quietly he pulled his sword from the scabbard hanging from his saddle. He draped the reins over the neck of his horse and, leaving the animal to munch grass, continued to follow Anora’s footprints.
Near the stream, he found her tracks taking a westerly direction and then head north in an erratic pattern. The distance between the prints increased and a sick feeling settled in the pit of his stomach.
He quickened his pace, keeping his eyes on the ground. He bit back a curse when a second set of prints joined Anora’s.
Dear God, let him find her hale and hearty. Though with each moment, his hopes diminished.
He found the small limb of a tree bent at an odd angle and just beyond that, signs of a struggle, but mercifully no blood.
He bent down to study the ground, searching for tracks leading away from the area.
He found them. As he started to rise, a twig snapped behind him and he turned. A searing pain exploded in his chest. He glanced down, surprised to see the red-feathered shaft of an arrow, the source of the pain. His brow wrinkled in confusion, and his knees gave way.
* * * * *
“I do not live at the castle. I know not what defenses they have.” The words tumbled from her lips yet again.“Then what good are you?” The ferret-faced man stood before her, his hands on his hips.
He reached out and yanked off her wimple. The pins fell, freeing her braid from the nape of her neck. A lascivious grin lit his face and Anora’s stomach churned.
He grabbed her chin. “’Tis said women with hair the color of fire are wildcats between the sheets. Is that so?”
Anora felt the blood drain from her face. When she refused to respond, he squeezed her chin painfully and let her go. “Like as not, ’twould be as if I put my cock in the knothole of yon tree.” He pointed to a dead tree, its leaves dried and rattling in the breeze. “’Twould be dried and splintery.”
At this he and his men guffawed loudly. She searched the faces of the many men around her. Hatred and lust leapt from their gazes.
One woman…thirty men. She swallowed back her fear and notched her chin a bit higher. If this day was to be her last, she would meet it without fear, her pride and honor intact. These Norman barbarians would not see this Saxon woman falter.
Several of the men turned away from her glare, busying themselves elsewhere. Her gaze met the Norman leader’s and she brought her chin even higher, putting all the heated force of her hatred into her eyes.
“Uppity whore.” His hand shot out, making hard contact with her cheek. Her head snapped to the side. “You Saxons will learn your place or die.” He spun around and strode to the other side of the camp, the other men following behind him.
Her jaw throbbed where the knuckles of the back of his hand had hit. Carefully, Anora moved it, wishing for the freedom of her hands to massage the pain away.
From beneath her lowered lashes, she watched the Normans, focusing on their conversations. She allowed their Norman French to fill her mind and crowd out painful thoughts of Fairhurst and Rosard.
The men went about setting up camp. A smokeless fire soon crackled in the center of the small clearing. A rack of rabbits spitted over it filled the air with the aroma of roasting meat. Her stomach cramped and her mouth watered. She’d eaten but a slice of bread and a bit of cheese this morn, and her stomach grumbled in protest as the smells wafted to her on a light breeze.
Anora sat forgotten at the far edge of the camp, bound to a tree. She pushed aside the thought of food and her need of water, focusing once again on the Normans’ conversation.
They did not know who she was or that she understood their tongue. ’Twould be to her advantage to keep them ignorant.
Casting her gaze to the ground, Anora settled a blank look upon her face as the Normans discussed the plans for the attack on the castle while they ate.
“Mayhap you killed Arlis a bit too soon, my lord.”
Surprised at hearing the traitor’s name, Anora glanced up. The men were gathered around their leader and didn’t realize she listened.
The comment earned the man a backhanded slap from his lord.
“The man was shiftless. At the first opportunity he would have sold our plans to the Saxons.”
The soldier rubbed his face and glanced around. Anora ducked her head, trying to make herself as small as possible.
Arlis.
The man had betrayed Fairhurst again, and died for his effort. She said a silent prayer for him, though he little deserved one. Still, he was a Saxon of Fairhurst; ’twas the least she could do.
“The forest is teeming with animals.” A Norman soldier announced as he rode into camp leading a rider-less horse.
“What’s this?” The ferret-faced man ran his hand over the animal.
“Killed a spying Saxon in the forest.” The soldier grinned and brandished a sword. “What need had he for such a fine blade?”
Anora recognized Rosard’s mount and his sword. She swallowed back a cry and bowed her head.
Rosard was dead? Hot tears burned her eyes, and she squeezed them shut. Because he tried so hard to put the people of Fairhurst at ease, he’d lost his life. For Anora knew that had he shorn his hair and beard in the Norman fashion, he would not have been mistaken for a Saxon.
“’Tis not a Saxon sword.” The ferret man grabbed the weapon, turning the hilt over, a cold smile stretched his lips. “This—” He raised the blade in the air. “This belonged to Rosard FitzGillen.” And then he laughed, the demonic sound filling the Norman camp.
A man gasped nearby, and Anora brought her head up.
“I’m…I’m sorry, my lord.” The warrior stammered, backing away from the ferret man. “I did not know. He…he looked like a Saxon.”
Anora gazed around at the men gathered at the fire. Several of them shifted uncomfortably, glancing at one another.
“You’ve done well, this day.” The Norman slapped the other man on the back. “’Twill make the taking of the castle that much easier.”
“My lord?” The warrior frowned in confusion.
“But we must move now, before his sons begin to search for him.” The ferret man began issuing a string of orders and the camp burst into activity.
“’Twas his brother?” One man nudged his comrade.
“Gaspar FitzGillen is a cruel one. You weren’t at Whitshire, were you?”
The other man sho
ok his head.
“He left no cottage standing when he was done. Ordered everything put to the torch and killed every Saxon who did not escape.”
“Lord FitzGillen must not hold his brother in high regard.”
“Nay, but King William does. ’Tis one thing to take a castle, but to kill one of William’s men…”
His brother? Anora tried to wrap her mind around the thought. Watching Rosard’s brother, his words from earlier hit her full force.
Fairhurst is mine by right of conquest.
He was the one who’d killed Edmund, not Rosard. A new wave of guilt swept over her, and she swallowed against the anguish left in its wake. Dropping her head to her bent knees, Anora fought the tears of grief welling in her eyes. ’Twould not do for the Normans to realize she understood their language.
The stamp and snort of horses filled the camp.“We shall ride into Fairhurst. Ten men will come with me, the remainder of you will go to the hidden portal. When the castle sleeps tonight, I will open the door. Anyone opposing us will die.”
Chapter Eleven
Anora rested her forehead upon her bent knees, her head turned slightly, watching the Normans as they prepared to leave. They smothered the fire, checked their weapons, repacked and tied their supplies in place.
“Mount up!” Gaspar shouted from the edge of the clearing.
Rosard’s horse shied away from the warrior’s attempt to gain the saddle, circling away from the man and turning his head to bite him when he came too close.
“Leave the damned horse,” Rosard’s brother shouted at the Norman warrior. “How will you explain it to my nephews? Better it just wanders back to the castle.”
“’Tis a valuable mount, my lord.”
“Aye, and you think to ride it?” Gaspar gave a bark of laughter. “Bastard or no, Rosard is no fool. His horse will not allow another to mount it.”
The man glared at FitzGillen, but dropped the reins.
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