Siege

by Virginia Farmer

  They approached the village and as they passed, the villein stopped, shock widening their eyes and their jaws dropped. They recovered and called out to him, smiles lighting their faces.

  Crossing the drawbridge, Rosard looked up and saw the guards staring down at him. “My lord?” The gruff voice of one rose above the din from the outer bailey. In short order, Fairhurst people gathered around Rosard and Anora, questions were shouted out, expressions of joy brightened the faces turned up to them.

  Once they entered the inner bailey, one of the men helped Anora down and Rosard followed. A young boy stepped forward, took the reins of Tartarus and led him to the stables.

  “Father?” Gyfton pushed through the people. “Father!” Rosard grinned as his son grasped his hand. “We thought you dead. ’Tis glad I am that you live. But tell me, what happened?”

  “Sir Gyfton, your father is not yet recovered. He needs to rest after his long journey home. Mayhap afterwards?”

  “Was it bad, then?” His eyes scanned Rosard, his brows furrowed. “We searched for you, but found naught but blood.”

  Weariness settled over him like a mantle. “My lady wife speaks true. I would rest a bit before telling all.” He glanced around the great hall. “Where is Royce?”

  “He and two others are searching for my lady.”

  Rosard turned to her. “Have you gone missing, then?”

  Her cheeks turned red and she ducked her head. “Nay, but I did not tell your son I was leaving the castle.” She gently tugged his arm. “Come, you must rest else you will never heal.”

  Once they gained the stairs, she let go of his arm and turned to the people following them. “Please, my lord has barely recovered. Allow him time to rest. Later he will tell us what happened.”

  By the time he reached the landing, his legs were shaking and perspiration dampened his forehead. He’d felt so much stronger this morn when he left Isabelle’s cottage. But he’d not been this active since his recovery. ’Twould take a bit longer to regain all his strength, he thought grumpily.

  They made their way to their room and Rosard slid into the chair by the brazier.

  “You must rest now.” Anora knelt at his feet, stripping off his boots. “You have tested your strength enough for one day.” At her urging he stood, and she stripped him of his tunic. A gasp hissed past her lips at sight of his healing wound. Her fingers gently skimmed the puckered, red scar.

  “I owe Isabelle much.” Her muttered words brought warmth to Rosard’s heart. His body reacted to her gentle ministrations and he noted how her eyebrow arched when she removed his chausses and saw the evidence through his small clothes. A blush tinged her cheeks and she turned from him, placing his clothing atop his chest.

  Ah, would that he could follow his body’s cravings.

  Pulling back the furs on the bed, she turned to him. “Come.”

  He walked to the bed, edging close to Anora and taking her hand.

  “Rest with me.” He climbed into the bed. “’Twas a tiring trip.”

  “But, my lord—”

  “I shall rest better with your company.”

  She eyed him critically. “Are you sure ’tis rest on your mind?”

  “Would that I had the strength, my love. For now, I would just hold you. ’Twas what I dreamed of.”

  “For just a moment.”

  “I’ll take what you give.”

  She removed her tunic, but retained her undertunic and slid in beside him. He pulled her close and fell into a deep, healing sleep.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Anora lay beside her husband, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest. He slept deeply. ’Twas a second chance she had been granted with him. And she would not squander it. During the long sennight of his absence, she had looked back upon the events and found fault in her actions. She was responsible for the difficulties she and the people of Fairhurst suffered. Granted, a Norman invasion precipitated such trouble, but she realized that Rosard was doing only the task his liege had given him. Her husband had been most generous with his stores, his time and his patience. And she had rewarded those actions with rebellion. She had resisted every opportunity of peace.

  That resistance would end now.

  Her gaze traveled the length of his long, muscular body. Her hand shook as she reached out and smoothed the hair from his brow, her fingers lingering on the silky strands.

  ’Twas odd to know this man with the commanding presence, so large and strong and yet find his hair soft as a woman’s.

  Her heart thumped a bit harder in her chest. An emotion washed over her that warmed her heart and weakened her knees. ’Twas affection—a deep and abiding affection. She swallowed against the lump that formed in her throat.

  Nay, ’twas time for truth. ’Twas love that filled her. And she thanked God for the chance to make things right for her and everyone.

  Anora pulled her hand back and slid from the bed. She could ill afford the luxury of staying abed, there was much demanding her attention. She would check on her husband a little later.

  Padding across the floor, Anora shrugged on her tunic and then added more wood to the brazier. She finger-combed her hair before braiding it quickly. Slipping a wimple over her head, she left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

  Time passed quickly while she dealt with household matters. ’Twas the time of day when the hall was empty of people, most tending their gardens or families. Later, many would return for the light evening meal.

  The door to the keep swung open just as she started to climb the stairs.

  “Where have you been?” Royce thundered into the great hall, his eyes lit with anger.

  She glanced around the room. The few servants in the room had stopped what they were doing. “Please, Sir Royce, let us discuss this in private.”

  She moved to the small room behind the dais, Royce close on her heels. She turned around, before she could say anything he rounded on her.

  “I have wasted the better part of the day searching for you.”

  “Please, Sir Royce, calm down. I—”

  “Calm down, you say!” he bellowed as he stalked toward her. “You defied my instruction. Think you I have no rule in this keep? With my father dead, I am the eldest. I am in control of all of Fairhurst.”

  “No, you are not.” Anger stole her sanity. “Though no doubt you would wish it. Your father yet lives.”

  “What is this? What lies are you spouting now?”

  “He is above stairs sleeping now.”

  “Do not think to distract me with such nonsense in order to avoid the punishment awaiting you for your disobedience.” He fixed her with narrowed eyes, a sneer stretching his mouth.

  Anora gasped.

  “Enough, brother.” The sound of Gyfton’s voice spun both of them around. “’Tis true. I was here when they arrived. His mount is in the stable.” He looked over at Anora. “He sleeps, then?”

  “Aye. The trek here sapped his strength.”

  “Where has he been this past sennight?”

  “A healer tended his injury.” She stepped away from Royce.

  “A healer?” Royce advanced on her. “Who? What was the healer’s name?”

  “Isabelle. Do you know of her?”

  “You say father is in his rooms?”

  She nodded.

  “I would have the story from his lips.” He marched from the room.

  * * * * *

  Rosard came awake when he touched the cool emptiness of the pillow beside him. He turned his head, searching the dim interior of the room. The sun was beginning to set and the embers in the brazier cast a feeble light about the room.

  He had just sunk into sleep when strident voices penetrated the chamber and the door swung open.

  “Father?” Rosard opened his eyes and glared at his youngest who held a candle near. “How fare you?”

  “We thought you dead.” Royce joined his brother. “She told us it was so.” Rosard followed Royce’s nod a
nd smiled when Anora appeared through the door and glided up behind his sons.

  “And praise God, I was wrong.” At her quiet comment, silence fell over the room for a moment.

  “She has told us the story.” Royce glanced over his shoulder at Anora then turned back to Rosard. “But I would hear it from you.”

  “Know you who notched the arrow?” Gyfton spoke over his brother.

  Memories rolled through his mind. “Find the one who uses red feathers on his arrows, and you will have your man.”

  Gyfton and Royce gave him a confused look.

  “’Twas just such an arrow that felled me.” Rosard pushed to a sitting position and Anora moved to his side to adjust the bolsters. He smiled his thanks as she stepped aside. “’Twas an eerie sight, to watch an arrow quiver in my flesh. Everything seemed to slow. I watched the bolt spin in flight as it came toward me and I swear I could hear the leather of my jerkin rip when the point penetrated it.”

  Anora gasped.

  “I shall leave you to the gruesome details, my lord.” She nodded to his sons and quit the room.

  He turned his gaze from the closed door to his sons. “And I saw the red feathers at the end of the arrow.” He caught Royce’s gaze. “After I went down, the man broke the end of the arrow off so that none would know who was at fault.”

  “’Tis the act of a coward.”

  Royce told Rosard of Gaspar’s arrival; of the late night visit to the door leading to the east portal and how he dogged Gaspar’s every move until the man left.

  “He will be back,” Rosard predicted.

  “Aye, and we shall be ready.” Gyfton rested his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  * * * * *

  Anora went to the kitchen, pushing Rosard’s description of his wounding from her mind. Why was it men found such joy in reliving battle? Or in Rosard’s case, near murder?

  With a shake of her head, she dismissed the questions from her mind, instead focusing on preparing a tray for her husband.

  “Bless Merton,” Anora mumbled upon entering the kitchen, the mouthwatering aroma of roasting meat and simmering stew swirled around her.

  Smiling at the spitboy turning the haunch of meat over the fire, she took a wooden bowl and filled it with the savory stew. Placing it on a wooden tray, she filled a cup with ale and broke off a large hunk of crusty bread. They joined the bowl along with a wooden spoon.

  She gave the roasting meat a long look, but shook her head when the boy stopped turning the meat and reached for a knife.

  “Nay, the stew is hearty and filling.” The richness of the meat might not sit well upon Rosard’s stomach. She picked up the tray and left the kitchen.

  Anora climbed the stairs to their chamber and, balancing the tray in one hand, opened the door.

  Bustling into the room, she stepped between Royce and Gyfton.

  “’Tis time you were off. Your father needs his nourishment and rest if he is to recover his strength.” She placed the tray on Rosard’s lap and glanced at his sons.

  “We have plans to make.” Royce stiffened, meeting Anora’s gaze.

  “There is time enough on the morrow for planning. For now, the evening meal will be served soon.”

  Royce opened his mouth, but Rosard cut in. “Lady Anora is right. Tomorrow we will discuss our plans. See that the guards are warned for now.”

  “Aye, my lord.” Royce gave his father a curt bow and spun around and with angry strides he left the room.

  “And shall we tell the people what happened, Father?” Gyfton glanced from his father to Anora.

  “I see no reason not to.”

  Gyfton bade them good night and left.

  “Mayhap we should warn the people to keep your return secret. ’Twill aid us if Gaspar continues to believe you are dead.”

  “Know you of any secrets that have been kept in a castle?” Rosard shook his head. “Nay, wife, if Gaspar learns of it, mayhap he will reconsider attaining Fairhurst.”

  “True. We can but hope.” She touched the tray resting on his lap. “Now eat.”

  When he was finished, she set the tray aside.

  “’Tis best you rest some more.”

  “Aye, ’tis time you sought your rest as well.” He grinned.

  “’Tis not sleep on your mind, I fear.”

  “Nay, but later, ’twill be.” He wiggled his eyebrows, took her hand and pulled her onto the bed. A surge of desire shot through her.

  “’Twill sap what strength you have.”

  “What matter that, lady wife? I’m abed now.”

  “But my lord—”

  He pulled her onto his chest and pressed a finger to her lips. “’Twill tire me more to argue the point.”

  She nipped at his finger and watched as passion warmed his eyes. His brow arched as he gave her a devilish grin.

  He brought his lips down to graze the corner of her mouth. In the next moment, he tugged her wimple from her head and his lips trailed a line of fire down her neck before returning to her mouth. Tremors of desire danced through her body as his tongue traced the seam of her mouth. She opened for him and tasted the heat of his building passion.

  He made short work of her tunic. In one smooth move, he rolled them both to their sides. His hand skimmed up her body, bunching up her undertunic and exposing her bare skin.

  Anora’s breath caught in her throat at the tantalizing touch of his callused palm. Shivers followed the path of his fingers as he lightly caressed her skin from hip to rib.

  Her hands mapped the contours of his chest, the springy hair there tickling her palms.

  He tugged her closer and captured her lips again in a demanding kiss, his hand moving to the junction of her legs. His finger slid through the curls to the source of her heat. She gasped as he brushed the sensitive spot and warmth pooled between her legs.

  With gentle pressure, he moved his finger over her in small demanding circles.

  His mouth left hers and she moaned her protest, until his lips found her nipple, pushing against the cloth of her undertunic.

  She craved the touch of his body, skin against skin, her breasts against his chest. But his finger demanded her attention even as he pulled her nipple into his mouth, the wet material heightening her pleasure.

  She stiffened as she edged ever closer to the peak, her breathing coming in short hissing gasps.

  And then she plummeted over the edge of passion, spasms racking her body as she climaxed.

  But it wasn’t enough, even when she could hardly breathe, her body demanded more.

  Moving her hand from Rosard’s chest to his abdomen, in a fog of desire, she felt his muscles tighten and he stilled as her hand traveled lower. Desire pounded through her veins, but she resisted the urge to grasp his erection.

  Instead, she teased him as he had her, coming near to touching him, but not quite. She heard his breath hiss between his lips and his body tense each time her hand came closer.

  Rosard grabbed his wife’s hand, rolled to his back, and pulled her atop him. With a frustrated growl, he tugged her undertunic up over her head and tossed it to the floor.

  He let his eyes roam over her wonderfully naked body and her passion-dampened curls nestling against him. Bringing his hands up, he gently cupped the weight of her breasts in his palms, teasing her nipples with his fingers. She rubbed against him and he throbbed with desire.

  He slid his hands from her breasts to her waist and helped to position her above his erection.

  “Rosard?” Shock clouded her gaze.

  “Ride.” He gritted his teeth as their bodies met and she slid over him, enveloping him in her slick, hot sheath.

  He dropped his hand from her waist and brushed the golden curls contrasting tantalizingly with his dark ones. Splaying his hand over her mound, he gently rubbed the button of her passion.

  She closed her eyes and her head rolled back on her shoulders. A low cry escaped her lips. She rocked against him, faster and faster. Pulling her down on his chest, h
e rolled over, placing her beneath him. Three strong thrusts and her body clenched around him. A wave of heat rolled over him as he climaxed with her.

  * * * * *

  Rosard lay with his sleeping wife in his arms.

  Ah, his wife! She was a woman of high passion. He smiled. A passion to match his own. He shifted on the bed and winced when his body complained.

  God’s toes, their lovemaking had sapped him of his newfound strength. After the ordeal they’d both been through, ’twas normal to reach out—to reaffirm life—to embrace it.

  And embrace it they had, he thought with a tired grin. He was blessed with a wife of great fire, and ’twas not the color of her hair, though he should have taken that as a warning. Nay, ’twas the passion in her heart that called to him.

  ’Twas more than passion though. ’Twas a joining of souls. He felt a completeness with her he’d never felt with another. She filled his heart. Though his body was replete, his heart demanded more, yet was satisfied with simply holding her close.

  He could not envision his life without her. He loved the way she challenged him, the way her nose wrinkled when she smiled. There was naught about her that he didn’t love.

  Love, he realized, and started at the surprising thought. He smiled and holding her closer, kissed her forehead.

  He loved her.

  * * * * *

  “Where go you this morn, my lady wife?” Rosard fell into step beside Anora as she left the gates of the castle behind.

  She smiled. “To the village, my lord husband.” She held up a jar. “’Twould seem our honey is gone.”

  “Then I shall accompany you, for I’ve an errand in the village as well.”

  “Are you sure you have recovered enough to be about like this?” In the sennight since his return, he had healed well, chafing at her restriction as he regained his strength.

  “And did not last eve convince you, sweeting?” He sent her a seductive grin, and Anora’s knees threatened to melt beneath her.

  Her husband’s ardor had only increased from the first days of his return to last night’s passionate loving.