Siege

by Virginia Farmer

  She frowned. “Aye, you’ve a point. But I beg you to listen to your body and rest when you are tired.”

  He wiggled his brows and grinned. “’Tis exactly what I did last eve.” He took her hand and tucked it into his elbow as they left the bailey.

  They continued to the village, trading comments with those they passed.

  “Rosard?”

  “Aye?”

  “I must beg your forgiveness.” During Rosard’s recovery, she had struggled with the shame of blaming him for Edmund’s death. ’Twas time to right the wrong.

  Rosard’s brow arched and he stopped walking. “How so?”

  Anora turned to him. “I fear I placed your hand on the sword that killed Edmund.”

  “My hand?”

  “Aye. You see, one of Fairhurst’s warriors returned from the battle, and just before he died he said that FitzGillen had slain Lord Edmund.”

  “Ah.” Rosard nodded and they continued on to the village.

  “I did not think you might have a brother.”

  “I see. ’Tis why you fought long after the siege ended.”

  “Aye. I beg your forgiveness.”

  “Can you not tell I have forgiven you all your transgressions?”

  “All my…” Anora sputtered, her face heating with anger.

  Rosard tipped his head back and laughed.

  He turned to her, a smile upon his lips. “And you have forgiven me mine.” He put his arm around her, pulling her against his side and taking the jar from her hand. “We have blended our cultures and are healing the wounds of war, Anora. Peace shall reign at Fairhurst.”

  They walked on and came to the beekeeper’s cottage. The keeper greeted them at the door.

  “My lady, my lord. ’Tis good to see ye about.” He glanced at the jar in Rosard’s hands. “Ah, I see ye need some of me fine honey, then.”

  “Aye, sir. I confess, I’ve a taste for it. And a spoonful tempts even my wife to partake of gruel.” Rosard handed the jar to the beaming man.

  The smile left the man’s face and he frowned. “My lady?” He looked at Anora, his eyes rounded in surprise. “You eat gruel?”

  She smiled. “Aye, ’tis quite tasty with a bit of sweetness added.”

  His smile returned and he nodded. “’Tis the finest around. ’Twill make anything better.” He stepped back from his door. “Will you come in and rest a moment? I’ve some honey ale ye might like.”

  “Honey ale, you say. I’ve not tasted such before.”

  They followed the man into his cottage and once they were seated on the only two stools in the room, the man presented them with mugs of his drink.

  Anora had no taste for ale, so she watched as her husband sipped his drink. Rosard’s eyes brightened and he smiled. “’Tis very good.”

  He nodded to her mug and she shook her head. “I believe you might even enjoy this, my lady.”

  Anora sighed and took a sip. “Aye, ’tis quite the best I’ve ever had.” She smiled at both men.

  The beekeeper bustled around his one-room home. “Aye, and never will ye taste such anywhere else, my lady.” He glanced over his shoulder as he took a jar from a shelf on the wall. “’Tis my own secret recipe.”

  Rosard finished his ale and while the man’s back was turned, he downed Anora’s as well, sending a conspiratorial grin her way.

  Taking the jar the beekeeper held out to her, Anora stood. “I thank you for the honey. I’ll send some bread to you in exchange.”

  “My thanks, my lady. ’Tis welcomed.”

  They left the beekeeper and once out of his hearing Anora said, “And my thanks for drinking the rest of my ale. I would not have him think poorly of me.”

  “’Twas my pleasure. I will send someone around to see if he can supply the castle with some of his honey ale.”

  Anora nodded.

  “But why do you send him bread?”

  “His wife died earlier this year, and he hasn’t the talent for breadmaking.” She chuckled. “’Twas the jest of the village, his first attempt. ’Twas said his loaves could be used to replace the stones of the castle.”

  Rosard chuckled. “’Tis well done, then.”

  “Aye, my lord. But now that my errand is done, what of yours?”

  “This way, wife.” He took her elbow and they walked a little farther.

  They came to the needlewoman’s home, and Anora frowned. “What errand have you here, sir?”

  Rosard just smiled. “Mistress?” He called out, lightly tapping the door.

  The door opened. “My lady.” The woman bobbed a curtsy. “And my lord.” She smiled at them. “Please come in. I have some currant jam and fresh bread.”

  “She makes the best jams, my lord.” Anora whispered. “You must try them.”

  So again, they found themselves partaking of the hospitality of the villagers.

  “I’ve your items here, my lord.” The woman handed Rosard a cloth-wrapped bundle tied with a bit of twine.

  “My thanks.” Rosard took coins from the bag at his waist and they made the exchange.

  “Send for me do they need adjustment,” the needlewoman called out as Anora and Rosard left.

  “That I will, mistress.”

  Anora eyed the bundle in Rosard’s hand. “Husband, if you needed something stitched, I would see to it.”

  “Aye and I’m sure you would, but ’tis my gift to you.”

  “Me?”

  Rosard smiled and nodded. “But you cannot see it until we reach our room.”

  A tingle of excitement raced through her and Anora fell silent as they walked back to the castle.

  “Wife, am I too slow for you? Would you rather run the last distance?”

  His question brought Anora from her thoughts, and she realized she’d set a hurried pace. She cast him a glance and saw the laughter lurking in his eyes.

  She slowed her pace. “Oh my lord husband, ’tis sorry I am for taxing you so. And you no stronger than a newly born calf.”

  In truth, Anora was eager to see the contents of the package, for she recalled his bride gift. She’d placed the cloth and girdle back in his trunk that first day—for each time her gaze fell upon it, ’twas like a new wound to her soul.

  Rosard’s laughter dispelled her musings as they passed through the outer gates of the castle.

  “A newly born calf, is it?” He took the jar of honey from Anora’s hands and handed it to a boy. “Take this to Merton and tell him to send bread to the beekeeper.”

  “Aye, my lord.” The boy smiled, taking the jar and running to the castle.

  Anora squeaked a protest when Rosard handed her the bundle and picked her up, his long stride eating up the distance to the keep.

  “Rosard, put me down. ’Tis unseemly to be carried thusly.”

  “Nay, Anora, ’tis unseemly to call your husband a calf.”

  He climbed the stairs and a warrior opened the doors, grinning hugely at them. Anora’s face heated with embarrassment.

  “My lord, please.”

  “In a moment, wife, in a moment.”

  But he continued on, taking the stairs quickly.

  “If you would be so kind, wife, would you open the door? My arms are full.”

  Anora pushed the latch down and they entered their room.

  He placed her gently on their bed and stood back.

  “Now, open your gift, wife.”

  Anora untied the string and just as she’d thought, tunics in green and blue and a white undertunic were folded neatly within the cloth.

  “‘Tis a beautiful gift, my lord.”

  Rosard smiled. “’Tis for a beautiful wife.”

  “My thanks.”

  “You may thank me by trying them on.”

  An hour later they lay tangled in the bed linens, Anora tracing circles in the silky hair of her husband’s chest.

  “Shall I try on the tunics now?”

  He smiled.

  “Aye, Anora, I would see you in the green one.”


  His voice curled around her name and a wave of warm contentment washed over her. Never had she experienced a love like this.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The days turned into weeks and Anora marveled at the change around her.

  Though several of Rosard’s soldiers had adopted the Saxon fashion, most had not. But now Anora saw beneath the Norman exterior. They were but men performing their duty to their liege. They missed their homeland, wives and families they’d left behind. They laughed, they fought, they loved, and they cared…just as Saxons did. ’Twas little difference she could see now between the two peoples.

  She frowned. Was it less than a year ago that hatred for the Normans near consumed her? Her forehead relaxed and she smiled. Life was ever a surprise.

  Never would she have thought to find happiness in the arms of the invader. Never had she thought of a Norman as human, with hopes and dreams.

  She had but to look upon her husband and know she had been wrong. She had come to love Rosard. She had loved Edmund, but ’twas a love one had for a dear friend. Never had her skin tingled when he touched her. Rosard had but to look at her for her knees to tremble and her woman’s body to heat.

  ’Twould seem everyone had awaited her happiness. And now that she found it, there were more smiles and laughter.

  There was but one thing more Anora could ask for.

  A child.

  Oh how she wished to cuddle a babe of her own, one with his father’s dark good looks.

  She sighed, refusing to allow herself to dwell on that which she could not change. For days now, her cowardice had sealed her lips. Though she told herself ’twas unfair to keep something so important from him, she could not find the courage to impart such devastating news.

  But that which one put off only became the hard to do. She straightened her shoulders. Tonight she would admit her deficiency to him.

  And pray God the happiness between them would not be torn asunder.

  The decision made, Anora gazed out at the hall. There was much to be thankful for.

  Today, Liselle and Etienne were married. ’Twas the first such marriage amongst the villein since the Normans arrived. And everyone was happy.

  Anora glanced at Gyfton. Well, with one exception.

  Poor Gyfton. He wore his heart on his sleeve for a love not to be returned. He lifted his cup of wine and when Anora’s gaze met his she found his eyes red-rimmed and glassy.

  “He will survive, my lady,” Rosard whispered and offered her a tasty morsel from their trencher. “But come the morrow, I think he will doubt that.”

  “Aye.” Anora took Rosard’s offering. “I shall prepare a potion for him.”

  “You are too kind. I would let him suffer. ’Twill take his mind from the pain in his heart.”

  Later, as the festivities showed no sigh of ending, Rosard took her hand. “Come, wife. I am for bed.”

  At his words and the look upon his face, her stomach fluttered. As they climbed the stairs, though, her palms became damp and the fluttering in her stomach turned to a ball of dread.

  She must tell him.

  The door closed and he came up behind her. Wrapping his arms around her, he nuzzled her neck. She steeled herself against the enticing kisses he placed behind her ear.

  “My lord.” She must do this. She spun from his embrace, lest he seduce her from her responsibility. “There is something I must tell you.”

  He frowned. “What is it, Anora?”

  She twisted her hands together, and gazed into his dear face. Sweet Mary, she did not want to hurt him. Her resolve waivered.

  “Anora, sweeting?”

  But she must.

  She pulled a deep, steadying breath into her lungs and blurted out. “I am barren.”

  Confusion settled over his face.

  “Barren?”

  “Aye, my lord. I cannot give you children.” Tears tumbled down her cheeks. “I cannot grant you your dream of melding Norman and Saxon together.” Her shoulders slumped and she turned from the pain she saw in his gaze.

  The silence of the room was broken by Rosard’s footsteps. He touched her shoulders and turned her around.

  “Why do you think you are barren?”

  “My lord?” She stared up at him. “I have been a wife for many years and never conceived. ’Twould seem to me proof enough.”

  “Did you find pleasure in your husband’s bed?”

  Heat burned her cheeks and she gasped. “My lord.”

  He shrugged. “’Tis said that a woman cannot conceive does she not experience full pleasure. ’Tis her husband’s duty to see to it.”

  “’Tis naught but a foolish belief.”

  “Indeed? Tell me then, did you find the same pleasure in his bed that you find in mine?” He pinned her with a challenging look and her face heated anew.

  She could not be disloyal to Edmund’s memory, but neither could she lie to her husband.

  “Ah, Anora.” He pulled her close. “I would say naught against Edmund. He took you to wife and held you safe for many years. Mayhap ’tis God’s plan.”

  She gazed up at him. “Mayhap, but I would not raise our hopes only to get them dashed.”

  He smiled at her. “A child borne of our love would please me, but only because it would give you such joy. I am content with my lot now.”

  “Our love?” She leaned back to look into his eyes.

  He frowned, worry darkening his gaze. “Anora, tell me I am not mistaken. My love is returned, is it not?”

  Her lips trembled as a smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “Oh, aye Rosard.” A fresh wave of tears pooled in her eyes. “I had hoped, but—”

  “I love you, Anora of Fairhurst.”

  “And I you, Rosard of Fairhurst.”

  His lips descended upon hers in a tender kiss and her worry evaporated beneath the heat of his loving.

  Come the morning, Anora sent the potion to Gyfton’s room, for she could not stand to see one suffer, especially in the face of her happiness.

  As she came downstairs, the door to the great hall opened and Godwin escorted in a stranger.

  Her gaze traveled over the man, dressed in a fine tunic, a bit dusty from his travels. He held himself very straight, exuding an aura of importance.

  She looked to Godwin.

  “’Tis a messenger from London.”

  “The king’s messenger.” The man stepped forward and, tilting his head up, looked down his nose at Anora. “I am here to escort Lady Anora to London to stand trial for murder.”

  Anora gasped and Godwin reached for his sword. She waved him off. Recovering herself, she raised an eyebrow. “And whom have I murdered?”

  He cast her a surprised look, and Anora smiled. She glanced down at her well-worn brown tunic. She supposed she did not look the part of a lady, but ’twas stupid to wear either of her two best gowns for everyday chores.

  “Your lord husband, madame,” he answered.

  Anora laughed. “I fear your journey has been for naught, sir. My husband lives.”

  “But, Sir Royce—”

  “’Tis a long story, sir.” She moved past him, wondering exactly what Royce had put in his message to the king. ’Twould seem he hated her so much that he would accuse her of murder. A blanket of despair weighted her shoulders. “Bring food and drink for our guest please, Joseph.” The old servant turned to do her bidding.

  “Sir Godwin?”

  “Aye, my lady?” He stepped to her side.

  “Would you find my husband and inform him of our guest?”

  “Aye, my lady.”

  “But my lady, I must return to London with all speed. We must leave immediately.”

  “’Twill not be necessary, sir.” Anora led the way to the high table. Motioning for the man to take a seat beside her, Anora glanced toward the kitchen, then the front door. Though she maintained her outward composure, her heart beat painfully against her ribs and her stomach tightened with anxiety.

  “My lad
y, I must protest. We have time and light to make it to the next town. We shall leave now.” He started to rise, but Anora placed her hand firmly on his shoulder.

  “We will not be leaving ere my husband returns. Then you shall see that there is no reason for your trip.” She smiled, but fixed him with a stern stare. “I am sorry for your trouble.”

  A servant brought ale, cheese and warm bread for the king’s messenger.

  “But my lady—”

  “Sir, you should eat now. As you will see when my husband returns, your trip was for naught.”

  Anora nodded to the food before the man and relaxed some as he reluctantly sipped the ale, then began eating the bread and cheese.

  That Royce had sent a missive to the king was no less than she expected, but it still hurt. Despite the fact that Gaspar had done exactly as she had said, Royce had thought her responsible for Rosard’s near death experience.

  The messenger was on his second mug of ale and Anora began to worry that Godwin would be unable to locate Rosard. She gripped her hands together in her lap, fighting off a rising panic.

  Moments later, her body went weak with relief as the door opened and her husband stood on the threshold, his broad shoulders filling the opening.

  “My lady?” With long hurried strides, Rosard came to Anora, worry etched upon his brow. “What is amiss?”

  “My lord.” The messenger stood, abandoning his meal. “But…” He glanced from Anora to Rosard and back again, disbelief changing to confusion.

  He brought his attention to Rosard. “You are a Saxon.” Turning to Anora, he fixed her with an accusing glare. “What trickery do you practice, my lady? The king will find no humor in this.”

  “Cease your prattle, man. I am Rosard FitzGillen, Earl of Fairhurst, by the grace of King William and God.”

  “But my lord—”

  “I find the Saxon fashion to my liking. It puts the people at ease and makes administering the king’s property much easier.” Rosard folded his arms over his chest and glared at the messenger. “Now what fool’s errand have you been sent on?”

  Rosard’s sons stepped through the door, moving near the table.

  “Sir Royce sent a message to King William.”

  Rosard turned to his eldest. “Royce?”

  “What did you write in the message?” Gyfton turned on his brother.