She’d been able to persuade several of the villagers to come to the palisade and help with the butchering. Although they were obviously uncomfortable around the Normans, at least they no longer cowered in terror at the sight of them. Two of the sokemen had even agreed to allow their daughters to live at the manor house and help Edeva with the weaving and sewing during the winter months.
She scanned the yard for the two young women now, remembering her promise to their parents to keep them safe. Eadelm would be no trouble. She was stocky and plain, with a cheerful moonface and lank brown hair. The knights would not bother her. But Wulfget... As she caught sight of the girl, dutifully mixing the sausage spices, Edeva sighed. Wulfget was a rare beauty, with a delicate, almost fragile build, huge blue eyes and hair paler than cornsilk. Edeva had already caught the knights staring at the maiden, then talking among themselves in low voices.
Mayhaps she should send Wulfget back to her family and ask for another village girl to train. But that did not seem right. Wulfget’s beauty was no fault of hers. Edeva would simply have to keep a close eye on her—and make certain Brevrienne controlled his men.
The Norman was busy at the butchering pen, holding the animals’ heads while another man cut their throats. ’Twas exhausting, messy work. His face gleamed with sweat, and his ancient hose and ripped chainse were stained nearly as red as his hair.
Despite his dishevelment, Edeva could not glance his way without a shiver of longing coursing down her body. She could not forget what they’d done in the bedchamber two days past, nor how it had felt.
Since then, she had gone out of her way to avoid him. She slept downstairs with the other women and spoke to him only when necessary. Which was actually quite often. Planning for the butchering required they converse at length on several occasions. It had been torture, but she had managed to get through it with her dignity intact. She simply reminded herself that he was her enemy, and she cooperated with him only for the sake of her people.
Fortunately, he had said nothing regarding that fateful afternoon. His manner continued to be courteous and respectful, giving no hint of the intimacy they had shared. She blessed him for his discretion, but also wondered what it meant. Had their lovemaking meant nothing more to him than a release of sexual tension?
Of course that’s all it was, for her as well. They had both acted like animals, but it changed naught of the circumstances between them. They were still foes. Nothing could alter that.
“Milady, do we have any more casks?” Beornflaed’s voice awoke Edeva from her musings. She gaped at the cook, realizing the crucial thing she had forgotten. “The meat won’t be ready for several days,” Beornflaed added, “but I thought we should plan for how much we will salt.”
“Mother of God,” Edeva cried. She turned and ran toward the storage buildings.
Panting, she finally reached the small stone structure that was used as the buttery. She peered into the low-ceilinged chamber, then found a stick and propped the door open so the light from the outdoors shone in.
The air of the buttery was ripe with the sour smell of the rounds of curing cheese piled on shelves around the chamber. Edeva brushed past flitches of bacon hanging from the ceiling and carefully stepped around large jars of honey. Behind the spare butter churn and a broken vat, she found a dozen wooden casks. “Not enough,” she whispered. The sinking feeling inside her deepened.
She hastened back to the buttery entrance, slammed the door closed, and began to search the other buildings.
When she was climbing out of the root cellar she saw the Norman’s tall form looming at the top of the stairs.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “I saw you running off, but no one knew where you’d gone.”
She shook her head, still breathless from her exertions. “We don’t have enough barrels.” She felt near tears to think that after all her careful planning she had overlooked something so important. “I’ve found two dozen in all. Already, we’ve enough meat soaking in brine to fill those, and there are more cattle to butcher.”
Her words triggered a sudden thought, and she took off running again. She called over her shoulder to the Norman, “Hurry, we must stop them before they kill the last few animals.”
“Why?” He ran along beside her, his long stride matching two steps of hers.
“Because the meat will be wasted,” she gasped. “We don’t have enough barrels to store it in.”
“Can’t the workmen make more?”
Edeva shook her head in exasperation. “The wood slats must be cured before they are fitted together. ’Twould be several weeks before the casks were ready. In the meantime, much of the meat will rot.”
They reached the yard. The absence of lowing animals told Edeva that they were too late. She came to a halt and sighed. She had imagined she was being so efficient, remembering every detail of the butchering process.”
“’Tis not the end of the world,” the Norman said. “We could always kill more of the pigs and cure their meat in the smokehouse. Bacon will fill our bellies as well as beef.”
“But the waste.” The Norman’s patient understanding distressed her all the more. How could she have been so stupid?
“We’ll not let the meat go uneaten,” the Norman said. “We’ll have a feast and dine like kings. Invite all the villagers, anyone who wishes to come.”
She stared at him.
He shrugged. “I’ve been seeking a means to let your countrymen know I am not cruel or unjust, that if they will work for me, I’ll treat them fairly. A feast would be the perfect means.”
She did not know what to say. Never had she imagined the Norman would do something like this. ’Twas beyond generous. Even her father had only held a feast at Yule.
“I’ll go tell the men to leave the last two animals whole for roasting.” He strode off, back into the commotion. Edeva gaped after him.
The Norman was a constant surprise. The manor was already better off for his stewardship. Her brothers would never have concerned themselves with something so mundane and messy as butchering, yet the Norman dove into the task, unafraid to dirty his hands or to sully his dignity working side-by-side with servants.
She glanced at him now, watching him use his formidable body and exceptional strength to help drag a whole carcass across the yard. The muscles in his arms bunched and rippled, his broad shoulders strained beneath the sweat-soaked chainse, and his long hair swirled around his face like a vivid banner.
Her turmoil deepened. The Norman was always doing things that met with her approval, even admiration. How could she despise him when he showed himself to be reasonable and fair? How could she hate him when he did so many things to win her regard?
Of course, she did not hate him. That was the problem. She was fast learning to like the Norman, or even, dare she think it, falling in love with him.
She was a traitor to her people. Only a weak, malleable woman would allow her loyalty to be suborned so easily. She must remember her duty.
She stoked the old hatred as the Norman approached. He smiled at her, his teeth very white in his blood-stained countenance. “Do not fret,” he said. “I have marked the animals we will roast for the feast. When this is finished, we will all celebrate, Saxon and Norman.” He reached out and touched her face, wiping at some streak of dirt on her cheek. His green eyes glowed with lazy warmth.
Edeva froze as heated memories whirled through her brain. The Norman saw her distress and withdrew his hand. “I think they need you for the sausage-making. Why don’t you go see to it?”
She nodded jerkily and left him.
Edeva walked along the pathway that ran behind the scattering of daub and wattle dwellings. From here she could see the gardens and backsheds of the villagers. The gardens were now bare dark squares, covered with refuse from the middens to enrich the soil for next year’s planting. Here and there a goat was tethered to a stick or a few chickens pecked in the dirt, but most of the other livestock had been slaughtered. The vi
llagers knew there was often not enough corn to keep both beasts and people through the winter.
As she started toward the forest, she saw a yellow striped cat moving among the tall, dry grasses edging the common pasture. It ignored Edeva as she passed by, and she wished it well in its pursuit of mice and other vermin. They could do with more cats in the palisade, she decided, to protect their store of grain. She would have to ask around the village to see if any of them knew of any recently born kittens. If she transferred the cats to the manor while young, they would probably make their homes there.
But that task would have to wait for another day. She’d already been gone from the palisade long enough. When the Norman had asked her to personally extend his invitation to the villagers to come for the feast, she’d jumped at the chance to walk out in the fresh air and smell the crisp scents of autumn. To her surprise, he had not asked the young soldier, Rob, to accompany her, but allowed her to walk down to the village alone.
Her news about the feast had been greeted with wariness. Many of the villagers were concerned that they might not be allowed to leave once they had entered the palisade. Did she trust the Norman? they asked her.
Edeva had reassured them, telling them that she had seen the Norman do nothing deceitful or unjust since the hangings. She even mentioned Brevrienne’s remark that he wanted them to know he would treat them fairly if they did their duty.
The villagers nodded and whispered among themselves. Then one of the men had asked her if she was going to wed with the Norman.
The question caught her completely off-guard. Her face grew flushed and hot, and she had mumbled something about having no say in the matter.
That had angered them, and before she knew it, the villagers were debating whether they should go to the Norman’s feast if he would not do the proper thing and wed with their lady.
Exasperated, Edeva had finally told them that nothing was decided yet, and that if they were wise they would show good faith by coming to the feast. They would eat well, she told them. The Norman was roasting not one, but two oxen for the meal. The promise of fresh, rich food distracted the villagers. By the time she left the common, there was no more talk of her wedding the Norman.
But the whole incident had aggravated her already frazzled nerves and she’d decided to take a walk before returning to the palisade.
She moved briskly now down the pathway toward the river, trying to quell her unsettled thoughts. God in heaven, she was having enough trouble recalling that the Norman was her enemy without the villagers suggesting she wed with him! Did they truly expect her to share the bed of a man who had seized her home and killed her countrymen? To forget her brothers, living like outlaws in the woods?
Of course, there was the fact that she had already given the Norman her maidenhead. Willingly. Eagerly.
Her face grew hot. There was no excuse for what she had done. Raw lust and jealousy over Golde had driven her into the Norman’s arms. And there was no way to take back what she had done.
In truth, the villagers were probably right. She should wed with the Norman. If he would have her.
Which was questionable. He thought her a hellcat, a virago, and now probably a slut. What man would want to wed a woman like that?
Edeva was so deep in thought, she did not see the man standing among the trees until he stepped forward and called her name.
“Beornwold!”
“Aye, little sister.” His voice was harsh with mockery. “I’m surprised you recognize me. It seems you have spent the last few weeks making every effort to forget your kin.”
Edeva said nothing. Although she had not forgotten her brothers, she had failed them in other ways.
Beornwold moved closer. “The time draws near when you can aid us. I have come from the village, which is all abuzz with the news that the Norman bastard means to hold a feast. ’Tis clever of him to try to win their loyalty through their bellies, but I mean to turn his plan our way.”
Beornwold smiled, but it was a bitter expression and did little to soften the grim lines marring his handsome face. “The Norman says he welcomes all Saxons to his table. ’Twould be easy for a group of warriors to enter the palisade, pretending to be sokemen.”
Edeva’s blood ran cold as she saw the direction of Beornwold’s thoughts. “Your plan is too risky,” she said. “The Normans still outnumber you greatly. And your weapons are inferior, your armor nothing compared to theirs.”
Beornwold moved even nearer. “But we have an advantage, Edeva. We have you. With your aid, we have a chance.”
“What?” Edeva asked breathlessly. “What do you want me to do?”
“Cause a distraction to keep all the Normans occupied in the hall. Once the doorway is blocked, ’twill be easy to pick them off.”
Edeva was horrified. “There will be women and children inside! How can you think of involving them in a battle?”
Beornwold’s blue eyes grew hard. “’Tis war, Edeva. We will try to spare those of our own, but if a few perish, it cannot be helped. This is our only chance. The only way we can regain Oxbury.”
“Nay,” Edeva whispered. “I will not help you. I will not be part of this.”
Beornwold’s lip curled. “I told Godric we had already lost you to the Norman. Tell me,” he said, his voice thick with contempt, “does he pleasure you well? Do you scream with passion as he mounts you?”
Edeva reached out and slapped her brother, then sucked in her breath in shock at what she had done.
To her surprise, Beornwold did not retaliate, but merely shook his head and turned away.
As he disappeared into the forest, Edeva’s vision blurred with tears. Her brothers wanted her to betray the Norman, to bring about his death. She could not do it. Every fiber of her being screamed that it was wrong. But how could she prevent it? How could she keep her brothers’ plan from coming to pass?
She could tell the Norman, warn him of what was to happen. He might decide the feast was too risky and call it off. ’Twould be the best thing. The villagers would be disappointed. The meat would rot. But that was better than the bloodshed that would take place if she said nothing.
Edeva took a deep breath and began walking. Back through the forest, where the beech trees shone smooth and bare and ochre-colored leaves clung to the broad boughs of the oaks. Where the ground beneath her feet crunched with fallen leaves and nuts.
She passed the hedgerow, bare now also, except for the gleaming red berries on the hawthorn branches. Past the mill, from where she could see the river, foaming white as it swirled around the rocks.
She walked up the trackway and through the open gate. As she looked around for the Norman, a woman’s voice called her name.
Edeva whirled and met Golde’s mocking gaze. “Milady, you have returned at last,” the woman said. “What kept you? The Norman remarked to me that you had been gone much longer than necessary to convey his message.”
“Indeed,” Edeva said. “Where is Brevrienne?”
Golde cocked a brow. “I imagine he is still setting his clothes to rights. ’Twas a most satisfying afternoon.”
Edeva’s hands clenched into fists. She wanted to strike Golde in the nose and ruin her provocative allure. Only the thought that the Norman might think her actions crude and unfeminine helped her restrain her rage.
She turned away, intending to leave Golde and her taunts behind. But she could not help listening as the wench called out in a husky voice, “Afterwards, I had the most entertaining conversation with Jobert. He told me all about the Norman woman he intends to wed. Her name is Damaris. Damaris de Valois. Her father is vastly wealthy, but that is not the main appeal. It seems our Norman lord prefers his women dainty and elegant. A pity, poor Edeva, that you are so large and awkward!”
Edeva whirled, no longer able to control her fury. But Golde had run off, laughing.
Edeva kicked the ground furiously. Jobert. The Norman’s name was Jobert. She had known him three sennights, had shared his be
d, and not learned his given name.
She wanted to kill him. To single-handedly bring about his death. But she could do better than that. She could ruin all hope of his reigning as lord of Oxbury.
She would have to think of a way to get the women and children out of the hall before the attack came. That was not an insurmountable problem. The servants and workmen posed more difficulty. She could not completely prevent them being caught in the conflict between the Normans and her brothers.
But as Beornwold had reminded her, this was war, and men inevitably died. Once her brothers and their warriors entered the hall, the sokemen would be able to choose which side they wished to support. She would not rob freemen of the chance to decide their destiny.
As she had decided hers. The Norman might be a just and generous lord, but he was still a usurper. He did not belong here, had no right to Oxbury. She must help her brothers rid her home of the cursed Normans.
* * *
“I don’t like it,” Alan said as he and Jobert stood on the ramparts above the gate and watched the Saxons file in.
“I know your thoughts well,” Jobert answered, “but it is too late to rescind my invitation. I have said we will feast, and so we shall.”
“No doubt half of the scheming devils have knives hidden in their belts or daggers in their boots.”
“Then they will have to surrender their weapons.” Jobert nodded toward the guards who were searching each person as they came through the gate. A plump, older woman stood in the entryway. As the soldier motioned for her to lift her skirts, she made an outraged noise like a hissing goose.
Jobert looked away. The Saxons could not think him such a fool as to allow them to enter armed.
“You cannot take their eating knives,” Alan reminded him. “And iron utensils might be used to cut throats as well as meat.”
“Have you so little faith in our men? Do you really believe we could be overpowered by a group of peasants brandishing puny blades?”
“Nevertheless, I do not like this,” Alan grumbled. “Look to the woman, Jobert. Why is she so edgy and restless? When you asked her when the food would be ready, she snapped at you as if you were an impertinent page.”
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