Siege

by Virginia Farmer

  That worry dealt with, his mind returned to the question plaguing him. Why had the Saxon woman saved him? There was no explanation for her actions. He’d pondered the situation on the ride from Isabelle’s cottage, but still he could find no reason for the woman taking the blade meant for him.

  Women have honor. The father’s words returned to him. Royce shook his head. Nay, like as not, she had simply stumbled. ’Twas nothing more than an accident.

  But his conscience nagged him. ’Twas a lie. He but fooled himself, and ’twas a poor job he did of that.

  Pushing the conflicting thoughts from his mind, he entered the darkened hall, stepping over sleeping Saxons and a few Normans. A torch flickered at the top of the stairs. He climbed the steps, making his way to his room. His steps slowed as he reached the Saxon woman’s chamber.

  Without thinking, he opened the door. A servant sat on a stool, asleep, her back against the wall, her head slumped to the side.

  Treading over the threshold, he closed the door and soundlessly went to the bed. Moonlight spilled through the open window, casting a luminescent light over the woman in the bed. He steeled himself against the soft emotions clawing at his heart. She was but a woman.

  He looked upon her dispassionately; she lay so still. He leaned close, his gaze locked on the linens cover her chest. He held his breath. Finally, a slight movement of the linen told him she yet lived. Stretching out his hand, he gently touched her forehead. ’Twas warm, but not fevered.

  Not yet, but Isabelle said to expect it. She had repeated her instructions to him and charged him to make certain the servants followed them.

  Royce returned to his room, but sleep would not come. As night gave way to the lavender hues of morn, he rose, his eyes stiff, his mind a jumble of unanswered questions.

  * * * * *

  Rosard rose before the sun, anxious to return to Fairhurst. ’Twas a new feeling, this craving to be with his wife. He felt only half of a whole without her. Never had he met such a woman. His first two wives had been docile and obedient, deferring to his wishes. Anora considered his wishes, but did they run counter to hers, it took all his charm and skill to bring her around. And oft as not, he was the one compromising. But she was an intelligent woman and the compromises worked out well.

  They ruled Fairhurst together. ’Twas a unique arrangement. One he never thought to have. But the people were content and life at the keep was peaceful.

  He nudged the feet of the sleeping men and, after a hurried meal of bread and water, they left.

  The sun reached its zenith as the party of Normans and Saxons topped the last hill and Fairhurst came into view. Anticipation hummed in Rosard’s veins, and he set a faster pace. Gyfton rode on his right, Sir Godwin on his left, others stringing out behind them.

  “Eager to see your bride, Father?” Gyfton grinned.

  “Aye, son, that I am. I pray that you find a wife who brings you such joy.”

  “Hah. Seems Lady Anora has tethered you to the keep, Father. I doubt you would range farther than the boundaries of Fairhurst were it not for the Scottish adventure.”

  Rosard quirked a brow at his son. “Adventure? ’Twas a bloody pain in the arse. Or in your case, a pain in the eye.” He focused on blacked ring around his son’s eye. Gyfton had suffered through the others teasing comments the morning after they retrieved the cattle.

  “I still don’t understand why the lad hit me. I was simply trying to help.”

  “’Tis the price you pay for adventure. I would rather negotiate with the Robsons and avoid such adventures.”

  The moment Rosard entered the outer bailey, he sensed something was wrong. He met the worried gazes of the villagers. Anxiety settled in the bottom of his stomach.

  “What is amiss, Father?” Gyfton mumbled beside him.

  He shook his head and turned to Sir Godwin. The Saxon shrugged at his silent question.

  They rode to the steps of the keep and dismounted, leaving their horses in the hands of the stable lad.

  “Oh, my lord.” Joseph greeted Rosard as he stepped over the threshold. “You return and not a moment too soon, sir.”

  “What is it, Joseph.” The old man’s eyes watered, his face creased with worry.

  “’Tis my lady, sir.” He glanced to the upper floor.

  “Anora?” Rosard looked up the stairs, then pushed past the old retainer and took the steps two at a time. He ran down the hall, flinging open the door to the chamber he shared with his wife.

  He came to a sudden halt. His throat closed; his eyes burned. He clenched his jaw against the agony of the sight before him. With slow steps, he approached the bed.

  Anora lay amid the linens, her skin so pale he could see the purple veins in her face. Dark circles contrasted sharply with her translucent skin.

  His brain struggled to comprehend what he saw.

  “Dear God, what happened?” The words spilled from his lips in a hoarse whisper, and he moved to Anora’s side and took her limp hand in his.

  The heavy tread of steps heralded the arrival of others.

  “Father, what is…Jesu.”

  “My lord? Lady Anora?” Godwin stepped up to the bed.

  “Father?” Gyfton called to him. He brought his gaze up. His mind numb, he stared at his son, trying to form a response, but could find no words.

  “What happened?” Godwin bit out.

  “’Twas horrible, Sir Godwin.”

  Rosard jerked his attention to the maidservant standing nervously across from him, and the devastating numbness eased. “Who did this?”

  “Father?” A new voice echoed in the room and Rosard pulled his gaze from the stammering maid to find Royce standing inside the room.

  “What happened? Who did this?” The words rumbled from his chest.

  “Gaspar.”

  A cold fury roared through Rosard’s veins, turning his heart to ice.

  “Tell me.” He bit out, startling the servant. The woman dashed out, fear blanching her face.

  “Gaspar returned after you left, but Lady Anora denied him entrance. He discovered the west portal. He took those in the keep prisoner, while his soldiers tried to take the bailey.”

  “Where were you?” He fixed his son with a lethal glare.

  “Hunting.”

  “By the Rood. You were not here? When I left you in charge? What manner of soldier are you? What manner of son that you would leave the castle?”

  A muscle flexed in Royce’s cheek, but Rosard would not take back his angry words. He gathered his composure. “Go on, I would know it all.”

  “The stable lad was sent to find me, and I returned through the same portal. I engaged Gaspar, he went down, but one of his men attacked from behind. I spun to counter his assault and Gaspar rose to attack my back. The Saxon woman shouted a warning.” Royce’s gaze wandered from Rosard’s, his blue eyes darkened, looking beyond the room as if seeing the attack again. “I thought she must have stumbled into the path of Gaspar’s blade, but…”

  “Stumbled?” The word burst from Rosard’s mouth.

  Royce looked at his father, confusion furrowing his brow. “But,” he shook his head in disbelief, “she must have thrown herself between us.” He lowered his eyes. “She did it a purpose, to…save…me.”

  He looked up again and Rosard’s heart twisted in his chest, recalling Royce at six when his mother had killed herself. Confusion, disbelief, and pain created a mosaic of emotions on Royce’s face.

  “Why, Father?”

  Rosard swallowed, then knelt beside Anora’s bed. He took her hand in his. “Because she has honor and is loyal, Royce. You are of Fairhurst too, she would fight to the death…” He choked on the word. “For anyone here,” he finished.

  Pulling in a deep breath of air, he looked Royce in the eye. “What of Gaspar?”

  “I killed him. Several of his men are dead as well. The rest are held below.”

  Rosard nodded. He smoothed Anora’s hair back, noting the heat emanating from her
skin.

  “Who tended her wound?”

  “Isabelle.”

  He nodded again. “Pray God she can work the same miracle for Anora that she did for me.”

  Rosard stayed by Anora’s bed. When the fever took hold, he dampened linens and wrapped her in them. When the linens became warm, he replaced them with new. He fed his wife the infusion the servant prepared.

  The morning of the third day, heartsick and exhausted, he demanded Isabelle be brought to his wife’s bed.

  Pacing the room, he waited for Royce to attend him.

  “Husband.” Anora’s weak voice was an angel’s song to Rosard and he rushed to her, dropping to his knees beside her.

  “Anora, my heart.” He took her hand and found it cooler.

  “Do not yell.”

  “Aye, my lady.” He pressed his lips to her forehead. “How do you feel?”

  “Weak. My chest pains me.” The words formed slowly on her lips and her voice was but a whisper, but joy lifted Rosard’s heart, bringing a smile to his lips.

  “Royce?” She met his gaze, tears forming in her eyes. “He lives?”

  “Aye, he does and owes his life to you.”

  A servant came in, took one look at Anora and said, “Praise be to God,” and ran from the room. In the hall he could hear her shouting, “Lady Anora is awake!”

  Lifting a shaky hand to Rosard, Anora touched his cheek. “Rest.”

  “Aye, love.” He took her hand. “You just rest.”

  “Nay.” She gave a small shake of her head. “You.”

  The room suddenly filled with people. Sir Godwin, Gyfton, Joseph, Merton and any number of servants tumbled into the room, hope shining in their eyes and hesitant smiles on their lips.

  He looked at Anora. “Shall I send them away?”

  “Nay. I would see them for a moment.”

  Rosard nodded to them, admonishing them to have a care and not stay over long. He stood back, watching anxiously over his wife until the last visitor left.

  He sat on the bed beside her. “You must rest now, sweeting.”

  “Aye, and so must you.” She closed her eyes and he thought she slept. “When did you last eat or sleep?” She opened her eyes and gazed at him.

  He shook his head. “I do not recall.”

  “You look terrible.” She gave him a small smile. “Like a conquering Norman.”

  He chuckled. “That bad, eh?”

  “You must eat and rest.”

  He nodded, deeply touched that she would be so concerned with his wellbeing.

  “Promise?” The single word whispered from her lips and her eyes closed.

  “Aye, sweeting, I promise.”

  He stayed a while longer, watching her sleep. A maid came in and he turned his watch over to her.

  “I will be just a short time.” He pulled clean clothes from his chest. “Watch her closely and call if aught changes.”

  She nodded and took her position on the stool.

  He left the room and was surprised to find the king’s messenger in the hall. He’d forgotten all about the man. “I will prepare a missive for you to carry to the king.”

  “Lady Anora will live?”

  “Aye, praise God.”

  “I will await the message, Lord Fairhurst.” The man nodded, took several steps down the hall and stopped. “My lord, I will also report to the king of Gaspar FitzGillen’s treachery; of the actions of the man with the red feathered arrows and of Lady Anora’s sacrifice for your son.”

  Rosard nodded, then walked quickly to the Anora’s old room to wash, change his clothes and write to the king.

  He was shrugging on a clean tunic when Royce appeared at the door.

  “Good news, Father.”

  Rosard turned to his son, jerking the tunic down.

  “’Tis all you can say?” Anger rolled over him as he looked at his eldest son. “She near lost her life to save you and all you can say is ‘good news, Father?’” He advanced on Royce. “You have ever held her in contempt, yet she saved you. Were I you, I would place the lady upon a pedestal, I would grovel for her forgiveness and swear my life to her.” He roared at his son, fighting the urge to plant his fist in Royce’s face.

  “Think you my pride does not suffer? Saved by a Saxon wh—”

  Rosard’s fist slammed the next word back into Royce’s mouth. The younger man staggered back, shock widened his eyes, and blood ran from his lip.

  “Never, ever refer to Lady Anora or any woman, Saxon or otherwise, like that again.” Rosard swallowed back the words banishing his son from Fairhurst. ’Twould not be what Anora would want.

  Royce’s gaze went flat. “As you wish, my lord.” Royce bent at the waist and turned to leave.

  “See that you thank my wife properly.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  * * * * *

  “What weighs on your mind, husband?” Anora watched her husband as he stood before the window of their chamber. For the last ten days he had administered the castle from their room, leaving her side but once to bathe.

  He turned and smiled at her, taking the few steps to the side of their bed. Grasping her hand, he sat beside her. “Naught, my heart.”

  But deep within his gaze she saw a haunting sadness he could not hide with a smile or light words. She had asked the question before, and always he gave the same answer.

  Today she felt stronger, more rested. Today she would not accept his glib reply.

  “Aye, Rosard.” She slid her hand from his, lifting it to caress his silky beard and the cheek beneath. “I see it in your eyes, husband, and it distresses me.”

  “’Tis naught for you to worry over.”

  “Know you I can be stubborn?” She arched a brow.

  He chuckled and arched his brows in surprise. “Truly, love?” He shook his head. “I have never noticed that about you.”

  She brought her hand down and twined her fingers with his. “Rosard, do you not share your burdens with me, I will turn into a harpy and ’twill be your fault.” She gazed up at him intently. “Do not make me beg. Your worries are mine.”

  “Nay, Anora, you are still too we—”

  She frowned, extracting her hand from his and pressing her fingers to his lips. “Do not say I am too weak. I have recovered and do you let me from this bed, I will gain my strength even faster.”

  He chuckled. “’Tis the gruel and honey you’ve been eating as if ’twas nectar from the gods.”

  Anora glanced away and smiled. ’Twas strange how she craved the stuff. Never had she thought to hunger for gruel, but never had she been in this condition. She had spoken to one of the women yesterday while Rosard had bathed. Her smile widened.

  “What does that smile mean, Anora?”

  She canted her head. “Do you tell me what trouble you’ve wrestled with these past ten days, I will tell you what my smile means.” Ah, for shame, she thought. Holding such news from Rosard.

  “’Tis good news then?”

  She shrugged. “Mayhap.”

  He eyed her closely.

  “Please, Rosard.”

  “My eldest has not come to you, has he?”

  “Royce?” She waited.

  He nodded. “Aye, Royce.”

  “Nay.”

  Rosard opened his mouth, but she went on.

  “’Twill take time for his pride to heal, husband. If I am willing to wait, so should you.”

  “Pride be damned. Did you not risk your life, he would have no time at all.”

  “Hush,” she soothed. “He will do what’s right when he can face himself. Be patient.”

  He blew out a breath and ran his hand through his hair. “I shall endeavor.”

  Anora grinned. “Ah, such a trial ’tis to be a father, eh?”

  “Aye. I think I liked my sons better when they were babes.”

  “Oh?” Anora swallowed her glee. “Why is that?”

  “They were manageable.” He grinned.

  Anora laughed. “Ma
nageable? We shall see just how you manage a babe.”

  His grin faded. “Anora?” He placed his hand lightly upon her stomach. “A babe?”

  Tears welled up in her eyes. “Aye, husband. A new generation for Fairhurst. A child to bridge the Saxon and Norman cultures and bring peace to the land.”

  The FitzGillen story continues with Surrender available in early 2015

  England, 1073

  Her family, her home, and her virginity—gone. Lady Amelia Hensley lost everything when the Normans invaded England. There was naught left but fear and pain-filled days. Death would be a relief.

  But first, she would end the lives of the Normans who had raped her and her young sister, and left her sibling to die in Amelia’s arms.

  Royce FitzGillen is just hours away from sailing back home to Normandy and escaping the humiliation he experienced at the hands of the hated Saxons. Before his feet touch the gangplank, a messenger arrives to thwart his plans. King William has ordered him to apprehend Lady Amelia and bring her to London.

  Capturing her was the easy part. Getting her to London proves more difficult. And keeping his heart from compromising his duty may well prove impossible. She earns his respect when he learns what is behind her attacks on the Norman soldiers. Were he in her place, he would have found the men and dispatched them, just as she had.

  But anything can happen on the long journey to the king. Royce attempts to convince himself that he has no use for an outlaw Saxon woman, while Amelia cannot conquer the fear that slices through her each time they touch.

  If Royce and Amelia are to find love and happiness, they must both conquer their demons and Surrender to love.

  Other books by award-winning author Virginia Farmer

  Sixpence Bride, Lovespell, winner 1999 Golden Heart

  Sixpence Bride, e-book release September 2011

  Spenceworth Bride, Lovespell

  Spenceworth Bride, e-book release February 2012

  A Blast to the Past, Lovespell

  A Blast to the Past, e-book release May 2012

  Meet Virginia Farmer

  My storytelling career started at an early age when I, a fair-skinned redhead, attempted to convince my classmates that I was an Indian princess. Unfazed by this initial failure, I continued to spin tales about majestic castles, knights on white horses and damsels in distress. So writing romance was a logical progression for me. I'm occasionally drawn from my fantasy world when my husband discovers yet another renovation project that I'm just dying to do!