The Conqueror

by Brenda Joyce

  SHE BEGAN TO WRITHE….

  And he came down on her, his arms going around her, steel bands, unyielding, and he felt the heat of her against the stiffness of his groin. He pressed against her, grunting with pleasure. Her sobs mingled with his labored breathing. But that was not what stopped him. It was the sound of galloping destriers. One more moment and he would be deep, so deep inside her. He was on his feet, his sword battle-ready in hand, in the next scant second.

  “Rolfe, my lord, stop!”

  Guy reined in, and Rolfe, standing there with blade upraised, was a hair’s breadth from killing his best vassal. Guy knew it, for he shouted, “She’s Mercia’s sister! Good God, she’s Mercia’s sister!”

  “What?”

  “She’s Edwin’s sister, Rolfe. Edwin and Morcar’s sister.”

  Rolfe turned, stunned, to look at the wench who lay curled up on the ground, the wench he had been an instant from raping. His intended.

  The Conqueror is dedicated to:

  My mom, truly special and even more wonderful

  And my dad, one of those guys who move

  mountains

  Friends always said that one day it had to happen,

  because of my constant creative visualization,

  a man just like one of my heroes

  would sweep me away,

  and finally, it did!

  For Eli—a real hero

  With a special thank you to Maggie Lichota

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Copyright

  Near York,

  June 1069

  “My lord?”

  “Rouse out all the villagers.”

  Rolfe of Warenne watched expressionlessly as his vassal Guy Le Chante wheeled his destrier around, calling to his knights. He sat motionless on his massive gray stallion in the middle of the road. He had removed his helmut; it lay in the crook of his left arm. His hair, flaxen and curly, was dark and damp with sweat. His mail hauberk clung to his broad frame, and his right hand rested casually on the hilt of his sword.

  He watched his men rousing the remaining villagers. He had only to turn his head slightly to the left to see the dozen slain Saxon rebels, their bodies already giving off that peculiar stink of death in the warm June sun. His blood still coursed from the recent battle, his muscles were still thick with it. Another nest of Saxon rebels, yet the king would not be pleased. Far from it. The war in these savage northern climes looked to be endless. It had been a fortnight since William’s iron fist had come down hard enough to shake the entire table as he sat with his vassals at York. They had just turned the Danish invaders back, retaken York, and sent the Saxons fleeing into the Welsh marches. This was the second uprising in as many years, and King William had been furious, especially as the Saxon lords Edwin and Morcar had escaped. Again. “No mercy,” he had roared. “We will burn out every croft and every cranny until these barbarians learn who their holy and anointed king is!”

  The orders stood.

  Rolfe saw his men herding a dozen villagers, male and female, away from the village. Like most of these hamlets, it consisted of a dozen small thatched huts, a watermill, a few common pastures for sheep, a cornfield, and vegetable patches. A cry of outrage made him turn his head.

  “No!” The young woman had hold of Guy’s arm as he lifted his sword to sever the head from a sow. She screamed again; Guy decapitated the creature effortlessly. Blood sprayed her gown and Guy’s horse.

  Rolfe watched with a twinge of interest. He wasn’t sure if his interest was due to her daring and foolishness in opposing Guy, or to her hair, the most magnificent and unusual mane he had ever seen. The color of the richest bronze, in the sunlight it sparkled as if seeded with gold flakes. The braid was as thick as his destrier’s tail.

  She stood in shock, clutching herself. Guy came trotting up the road. For a moment Rolfe did not take his eyes off her; he felt the stirring in his groin and made another decision. Guy reined in as the wench was led to the group of pale, stricken villagers by one of the peasants. He wondered what she looked like up close, then dismissed the question as needless. It didn’t matter; she would serve. “My lord?” Guy asked.

  Two oxen and a dozen sheep had been slaughtered, enough to feed his men for a sennight. He waited a beat, until one of the knights had dragged the slaughtered sow aside, then pierced Guy with cold blue eyes.

  “Burn everything.”

  “The cornfield?”

  Rolfe’s jaw clenched. Without their livestock and without their corn, the peasants would starve this winter. But they would not harbor any more rebels. “Everything.”

  Guy turned with a cry. No war cry, but a shallow, lacking rendition. His men were not looters, not like many of the mercenaries come to England. Rather, his men were highly trained, the most elite Norman fighting force there was, the king’s personal household troops. They had been honed by years of war to establish William in the duchy of Normandy, in resisting invasion in France and Anjou, in conquering and holding Maine. Hastings had been a lark in comparison; and three years later the Saxons had proved they were no threat on the battlefield. Only in the hills and vales and forests of the borderlands, Rolfe thought. Then they were very skilled warriors, indeed.

  He did not have to look to feel the agitation coming from the peasants, for his senses were keen. But look he did. He saw an old woman and a man holding the honey-haired girl, who was struggling to break free. He watched keenly. She slipped their grasp and, with her skirts lifted, giving him a glimpse of bare, dirty feet and slim, shapely calves, she ran up the road to him.

  Bloodlust, thick and hot, filled his sac, tightened it, weighted it. He watched her approaching. “My lord, please,” she cried, panting, her hands clasped to her bosom. “Please, stop them, it’s not too late!”

  For an instant, Rolfe couldn’t answer. She was dirty —dirt smudged her face, her gown and tunic, her hands. But he barely saw her filth. He was looking at her perfectly oval face, at the high, aristocratic cheekbones, the straight, slightly tilted nose, big, wide purple eyes. And that mouth. Too full, the only impe
rfection, a mouth made for a man’s pleasure. Some Saxon lord’s by-blow, he thought, and knowing what was to come, there was the slightest easing of the hard line of his lips. His friends would know he was pleased.

  He ignored her plea, of course, and turned his head slightly to watch one hut go up in flames. It was instantaneous, because of the thatched, straw roof. Another followed. He did not feel satisfaction. There was no satisfaction to feel. He was the king’s man, he was his sworn vassal, he was doing his duty. And as a warrior and William’s most trusted knight, he knew the soundness of this policy. It would, eventually, break the back of the rebellion.

  She grabbed his foot.

  Shocked, Rolfe twisted, as his steed pranced furiously and then lashed out. She jumped back as Rolfe fought to control the maddened stallion, who was meanly humored and as likely to kill men as not. When he had his mount under control he pierced her with a look that combined anger and incredulity.

  “Please spare the corn,” she cried. Tears streaked her grimy cheeks. “Please, my lord, please.”

  She would starve along with her village, he thought, and a muscle ticked in his jaw. He looked away again and watched as the corn went up in a blaze of flames. He heard her gasp out a choked sob, then knew she was leaving. He was compelled to gaze after her, running, stumbling, not back to the villagers but into the forest. He watched her hips. The heaviness in his groin grew. Smoke billowed over the village; the old women were sobbing. His knights had finished their job, and Rolfe saw two of them turn and set chase after the girl, no doubt with the same intention of bedding her that he had. Instantly adrenaline tightened every fiber of his being and reflex had him leaning over his stallion’s neck, spurring him on.

  Guy and Beltain were ahead of him, pursuing her at an easy canter, and he heard Beltain laugh. Rolfe smiled. Beneath him, his destrier stretched out into a gallop. The two men heard him and looked back, startled. Ahead of them Rolfe saw the girl disappear into a copse. She knew she was being chased and her feet had wings. Rolfe reached his men and surged between them. He was vaguely aware that they had dropped out of the chase, as he had known they would. The girl came into sight again.

  Every muscle of Rolfe’s body was taut with tension and expectation. He was hard and throbbing beneath his undertunic. He could almost feel her soft woman’s body beneath his, the sticky heat of her sheath around him. She screamed as she fell, looked back, saw him. She was up and running again. He was behind her. Alongside her. He easily drew her into his arms and up onto his thigh. She screamed again, clinging, though, not struggling, as his destrier was in a battle gallop, and one fall would be her last. He pushed her completely over his lap, facedown, and felt soft breasts on his thigh, her ribs against his stiff groin. He brought the stallion immediately to a blowing halt.

  She was twisting wildly, and her elbow almost caught his manhood as she tried to right herself and slip off, but Rolfe was too fast and too strong. He slid to his feet with her in his arms, went down on his knees, and pushed her flat on her back.

  For an instant, their eyes met.

  Hers terrified and furious, his hot and bright.

  He had to have her, and now. He caught her braid by the nape, and even as he leaned over to claim her lips he was shoving her gown and tunic up to her waist. She writhed but his one hold was enough to pin her. He kneed her thighs wide apart. “My brothers,” she said, gasping. “My brothers will—”

  His mouth closed on hers, his tongue delving deep into the space she had provided. He ran one hand over her breasts, full and lush. His hand didn’t stop. He tore his mouth away and reached down to clasp her woman’s mound; she arched in panic beneath his touch. “They’ll kill you,” she screamed, her body coming up off the ground to try to escape his touch. But he still had her nape and her head remained a firm anchor; she wasn’t going anywhere. Not until he allowed it.

  She lay spread before him, and the sight of her pink woman’s flesh drove him to the edge. He released her wrists, violently ripping open her bodice, exposing full, lush breasts and a small pouch she wore on a thin chain. The sight momentarily froze him. With a shriek, her nails flew at his face, but Rolfe’s reflexes were honed by years of battle, and he caught her hands again, the grip cruel, causing her to cry out. Already his shaft was huge and thick, straining his hose, ready to burst. Rolfe transferred her hands to one of his, yanking them high over her head, hard, effortlessly, even though she still fought him. And then he was taking a nipple into his mouth.

  She began to writhe again. He came down on her, his arms going around her, steel bands, unyielding, and he felt the heat of her against the stiffness of his groin. He pressed against her, grunting with pleasure. Her sobs mingled with his labored breathing. But that was not what stopped him. It was the sound of galloping destriers. One more moment and he would be deep, so deep, inside her. He was on his feet, his sword battle-ready in hand, in the next scant second.

  “Rolfe, my lord, stop!”

  Guy reined in, and Rolfe, standing there with blade upraised, was a hair’s breadth from killing his best vassal. Guy knew it, for he shouted, “She’s Mercia’s sister! Good God, she’s Mercia’s sister!”

  “What?”

  “She’s Edwin’s sister, Rolfe. Edwin and Morcar’s sister.”

  Rolfe turned, stunned, to look at the wench who lay curled up on the ground, the wench he had been an instant from raping. His intended.

  Ceidre crouched panting and shaking in the dirt.

  She could still hear the rumble of thunder that was the massive destrier’s hoofbeats as the Norman knight had ridden her down. She could still feel the steed’s hot breath, and her own terror. She had been inches from being trampled to death, and she had seen these Normans run down hapless peasants before. This knight, like the others, would have probably done the same to her out of sheer perverted amusement. Sweet Saint Cuthbert!

  She could still feel his arms around her, arms of steel, holding her hard and fast to the moist brown earth. And his hands on her womanhood, his mouth on her breast, defiling her. And the heat of his manhood … Mother of God!

  She understood the Norman language fairly well, but had been too shaken to comprehend the rapidly fired conversation now occurring. Yet she could not miss her brothers’ names, could not miss “Mercia.” She fought to still her trembling, straining to listen, with her face still pressed to the ground.

  “God’s blood,” Rolfe said, and she knew he was looking at her. “She can’t be.”

  She could feel the heat of his stare, feel the shock of whatever news had been imparted, in the silence now held between him and his man. Sweet Mary, how she hated him!

  “I heard it from the villagers,” his man said. “’Tis well known. And Aelfgar is not that far from here.”

  Ceidre tensed at the name of her home. They must know who she was. She slowly sat up, clutching her torn gown together. She fixed him with a stare of intense hatred.

  His gaze, cold and vividly blue, held hers. His look darkened and warred with hers. A nerve in his jaw ticked. She could feel his anger now and knew it was directed at her. For what? For her insolence in hating him? For what he had been denied—the rape of her body? Or because he knew who she was?

  He moved. He came to her swiftly. Ceidre started to shrink away, then caught herself and held her ground, raising her chin with defiance. She could feel the thick, unnatural beat of her heart, the cloying terror. He could rape her and then beat her before killing her, but she would not show fear of this man. But he had seen her initial reaction, and this too displeased him. His anger was a visible thing, darkening his eyes again, and his face.

  And then his expression changed. He stopped abruptly, staring.

  Ceidre had seen many people look at her the same way, when they first noticed her eye. Surprise, usually, was the initial reaction, then puzzlement, then comprehension and horror. Behind him, she saw Guy draw back. “I’d heard it but I didn’t believe it,” he whispered nervously, unable to tear his glan
ce from Ceidre. “’Tis the evil eye.”

  Rolfe’s gaze was riveted upon hers. Ceidre hated the deformity that had haunted her her entire life: Her right eye sometimes wandered away at will. It was not a frequent occurrence; usually it happened only when she was extremely tired, and was only noticeable by those in close proximity. People thought she could gaze in two opposite directions at once—’twasn’t true. Strangers who did notice this defect crossed themselves for protection when they saw her “evil” eye and kept well away from her. It had been that way her entire life, since she was a tiny toddler in swaddling. The villagers at Aelfgar, her own people, many her own kin on her mother’s side, were long used to her, knew she wasn’t evil. Yet that she could heal the sick as her granny did only confirmed their belief that she was a witch. So even her kin were overly aware of her, in awe. Only her brothers, well used to her, seemed entirely indifferent, and Ceidre had long since said prayers of thanks for this blessing. Yet even they were not beyond begging a boon—Morcar had once asked her to bewitch a lass who had been leading him on a merry chase! Now Ceidre flushed, hating this deformity more than she ever had in her entire life—hating being exposed before this man.

  His cool blue gaze swept her features one by one, returning finally to her eye. Then he spoke. “She is no witch. She is flesh and blood. That is enough.”

  “My lord,” Guy protested nervously. “Be careful.”

  He was standing above her, his sword sheathed, hands curled into angry fists on his lean hips. “Are you the lady Alice?”

  She blinked in surprise. And then she understood his misconception; he was confusing her with her half sister. Ceidre was no fool. Alice was not a by-blow. Being nobly born, she was of more import than Ceidre herself was. Depending, of course, on circumstance— on which game of war this Norman pig chose to play. For now she would go along with the false belief, to save herself from a certain rape, or worse. Ceidre said, “Yes.”

  Her answer seemed to please him, for suddenly he smiled. Ceidre was momentarily stunned. Not by his response, or by the fact that he actually could smile. She remembered how he had looked charging after her on his destrier, like a golden pagan god. How he had looked, sitting there so impassively as she had pleaded with him to spare the corn. Now she realized he was devastatingly handsome with his short golden curls, his blue eyes, straight white even teeth, and features that were sensually, ruthlessly chiseled. She stared at his proudly sculpted face, unable to stop herself.