“We have not yet reached the safety of the palisade. We might yet be ambushed.”
Edeva’s heart seemed lodged in her throat on the way back to the fort. At any moment, she expected an arrow to come whizzing through the air and strike one of the knights in the back, or a band of axe-wielding warriors to rush out of the woods. If the rebels killed a few Normans whenever they left the palisade, they might gradually whittle down the enemy force and demoralize them.
The rebels must have thought of that approach, but something stayed their hand this day. Did some of them argue to hold off attacking for fear of Edeva and Wulfget’s lives?
She could well imagine Godric and Alnoth insisting that the risk was too great.
She could also imagine Beornwold arguing the other way, reminding his brothers that she had chosen to side with the Normans, that she was a traitor and a slut and deserved to die.
A sob rose in Edeva’s chest as she remembered Beornwold’s cruel words. If her father were alive, would he think the same of her? And was there not a bit of truth in it? Did she accept the Normans because she truly thought it best for her people, or had her loyalty been suborned by the Norman leader’s beguiling lovemaking? Was she, like she’d heard said of men, thinking with her loins rather than her head?
“You seem distraught, Lady Edeva.” Fornay spoke beside her, his voice low so as not to wake the woman sleeping in his arms. “Did the healer say something that distressed you?”
Edeva shook her head.
“But you are troubled,” he insisted. “Could it be that things did not go as planned? Were the Saxons supposed to attack and then changed their minds?”
“Must you always think the worst of me? In everything I do or say, you find some malevolent meaning. Have I not acted in good faith so far? ’Twas I who suggested we take an escort. Mayhaps that is why the attack you expected did not come.”
Fornay shook his head. “I cannot trust you. Guilt is writ upon your features, and always you act uneasy, unsettled.”
“Mayhaps my guilt comes from the fact that I have forsaken the cause of my people!” Edeva was angry now, and she did not hold back. “Mayhaps I despise myself for giving in to my enemies!”
“’Tis a possibility, but not a likely one.”
“And what about Wulfget?” Edeva demanded. “Do you think she is trying to trick you, that she uses her sickness to win your favor so she can betray you later?”
“Wulfget is different. She thinks and acts the way a woman should.”
“Which is?”
“Women should concern themselves with their households and children, not the doings of men.”
Edeva gritted her teeth. Fornay was as irritating as her brothers. Nay, worse. They had allowed her to dress as a warrior and watch with them in the forest. This mule-headed knight would never have endured that!
“So, you think I am not a proper woman,” Edeva fumed. “My skill in managing a household puts food in your belly, sees that your clothing is washed and mended and the hall where you sleep remains warm and comfortable. Yet you mislike me because I am not an empty-headed fool who allows men to make all the decisions in my life!”
“I never said I did not admire your competence as chatelaine. ’Tis the rest of it that disturbs me. Norman noblewomen do not dress as men nor brandish weapons.” Fornay raised his brows. “If I had been the commander rather than Brevrienne, I would have done things differently. I would never have allowed you the power you have.”
“But you are not lord,” she reminded him.
“Brevrienne entrusted me to look after his property while he was gone, and I will do whatever is necessary to make certain Oxbury remains in his hands. Whatever is necessary.”
His warning was clear, and infuriating. Until Brevrienne returned, she would have to endure this man’s disapproval and suspicion. If the rebels attacked, he would blame her.
Edeva glanced over at her antagonist and caught him bestowing a fond look on the woman in his arms. A pang went through her. Had Brevrienne ever looked at her like that? Mayhaps women like her did not inspire affection. Lust might be all any man was able to feel for her.
An ache started in her throat. Apparently, she should have greeted Brevrienne at the gates of the manor in her best gown and thrown herself at his feet. But how could she have known that their conqueror would be a just, decent lord? How could she have risked her people’s future by surrendering before she knew the intentions of the enemy?
“I suppose Norman women are much like her.” Edeva jerked her head toward Wulfget.
“In some ways. But few of them have her delicate coloring.”
“But they probably act like her,” Edeva persisted. “Dainty and helpless.”
“Oh, they can be lively, too, full of jesting and fun. And many of them play music and sing.”
“Do you have a special lady, Sir Alan?” Edeva asked coldly.
“A landless knight cannot afford to wed. That is part of the reason I decided to swear service to William. ’Twas my only hope of someday acquiring land and marrying.”
“What of Brevrienne?”
“His father is a wealthy lord, but as a younger son, he could not hope to inherit his father’s properties. He had to win his own.” Fornay gave her a penetrating look. “’Tis my duty to see that he keeps what he has won.”
Edeva set her jaw. Fornay continued, “Now that he has land here in England, Brevrienne will be able to return to Normandy to seek a wife. By allying himself with a property holder in Normandy, he can build a fine legacy for his children.”
His words struck Edeva like a dagger to the gut, reminding her of Golde’s sly taunts. Would Brevrienne bring a Norman wife to Oxbury? And what of her? Would she be discarded, like a worn garment that no longer serves its purpose?
Fornay must have guessed her turmoil, for he said, with a slight smile on his face, “Mayhap you can remain his leman, for all he seems to lust for you.”
FOURTEEN
“You see all these shops? The king collects rent from them. That’s where the real wealth is. Not in produce and barter goods, but taxes. Most of them pay in coin, or in goods that can later be resold. If you could expand your small hamlet into a real town, attract merchants and craftsmen, your sons would end up rich men some day.”
Jobert nodded at Miles de Falaise’s words as they walked down the crowded streets of Gloucester. In his mind he envisioned Oxbury in the future, the little village swelled to a walled town, with timber houses and shops, mayhaps even a small cathedral. And on the hill above, his castle of gleaming stonework, with a drawbridge, tower, and crenelated walls making it as formidable as it was beautiful.
He shook off the image. They had much work to do simply to hold onto the land his fantasy castle would be built upon. Tomorrow, they went out to fight the rebel Saxons.
“I envy you Jobert,” Miles said. The lands William allotted to me are not near so rich. The manor itself was burned ere we arrived and since we took possession, we’ve been attacked twice.”
“I wonder if the Saxons will ever admit defeat.”
“These people have.” Miles nodded toward the well-kept houses and shops.
“But they have goods to sell, services to offer. They earn their bread whether they are ruled by Saxon or Norman. But for most men, to lose their lands means losing their livelihood, their very name. What are the dispossessed Saxons to do, starve quietly?”
“But William has not taken the lands of all of them. Only those who were sworn to King Harold’s cause.”
“In this part of England, that seems to be many. Whole families of landless men—uncles, brothers and sons of those who fought at Hastings, as well as the ceorls who served them.”
“They cannot win.” Miles shook his head. “William’s forces are like a fist smashing through the heart of England. The Saxons must give way or be destroyed. Tomorrow we go out and kill more of them.”
Jobert nodded as the two of them went into a tavern. It was cro
wded with Norman knights called up for battle. A few Saxons could be seen among the mass of fighting men, barmaids pouring wine, and whores offering their services. But, except for the tavern keep, there were no Saxon men among the crowd.
Jobert and Miles sat down on a bench among the jostling customers and a plump wench with blue eyes and reddish curls came to fill their cups. Jobert took a swallow and made a face. “Jesu, what swill passes for wine these days! What I would not give for some fine red from Caen or Paris!”
“’Tis still better than that piss Saxons drink.”
“I could develop a taste for ale, if it is made properly. Oxbury has its own alemaster, and the man knows what he’s about. Once I learned ’twas no profit in sending him to tend cattle when he should be about his brewing, the quality improved immensely.”
“A brewmaster, eh? At my holding, there are few skilled workmen and no shops left in which they might ply their trade. And there is the matter of their cursed language. I cannot speak with them, nor they with me. How do you make your people understand what you want of them, Jobert? Do have someone among your troops who knows that English gibberish?”
Jobert thought of Edeva, a matter of contemplation he had tried to avoid. “There is a Saxon gentlewoman at Oxbury who learned Norman French from a servant,” he told Miles. “She serves as my interpreter.”
“A gentlewoman? Is she kin of the old thegn?”
Jobert nodded.
“Have you thought of wedding her? Or, is she a dried-up crone, too old to bear children?”
A wave of remembered heat went through Jobert. Edeva was as far from a crone as any woman could be. “Indeed, I’ve thought of wedding her. I’ve already petitioned William for the right.”
“Good for you,” Miles said. “’Tis important to confirm your authority over your lands and a Saxon wife will do that. Which reminds me. You knew, didn’t you, that Damaris de Valois went into a convent?”
Jobert took an expectant breath, anticipating the familiar throb of longing that the mention of Damaris always brought. To his surprise it didn’t come. “I am pleased for her,” he said. “She always said she wished to take holy vows.”
“She finally convinced her sire that she wanted no man as husband. Valois took it hard. His only living child, and all his hopes of founding a dynasty, withering away in a holy house. He blames you, you know.”
“He’s a fool!”
“And a dangerous one. ’Tis fortunate you have King William’s favor these days. I can well imagine Valois’s quest for vengeance following you here to England. He cannot be pleased that you are now a landowner and a lord. He himself holds property in Hertfordshire. Near the other side of England, but not far enough away to keep him from causing you trouble. Valois has friends in high places, and methinks he will not hesitate to use them.”
Jobert barely listened to Miles’s words, his thoughts not on the vengeful father, but the maid. He could feel himself letting go of the memories, the dreams. Although he had once loved Damaris, time had reduced his affections to fondness. Now, there was no reason at all not to wed Edeva.
He thought of Iovin transferring the rolled parchment bearing the Brevrienne seal to the saddlebag of a courier bound for the coast and Normandy. How long before he got his answer from William? Mayhaps by the time he returned to Oxbury, he would have received the king’s permission to wed Edeva. It would make a fine homecoming present, except for the one vague doubt gnawing at him. What if she did not wish to marry with him?
“Jobert,” Miles voice came to him through the haze of his thoughts, “What say you that we find a cookshop and fill our bellies? I’ve heard the mutton pies down the street are excellent.”
* * *
The autumn sun shone down upon them, turning the three stone of mail and armor each knight wore into a weltering prison. Jobert swiped at the sweat trickling down his brow and thanked his Maker ’twas not high summer.
The huge destrier beneath him shifted restlessly. Hellfire was as impatient as he to engage the battle.
’Twould be like Hastings all over again. The Saxons would form their shield wall, row upon row of ashwood shields and jutting lances creating a near-impenetrable barrier. Then, the Normans would charge, using the force of a mounted attack to wear down the wall. Hour after hour the battle would rage, until like a wolf utilizing its greater size and ferocity to rip apart a prickly hedgehog, the shield wall would crumble, and it would be all over.
“What are they waiting for?” Miles rode up beside him, struggling to control his own edgy mount. “All of the area fiefholders have gathered. I see no point in delaying.”
“We wait for the enemy.” Jobert pointed to the rise where the scouts had reported the Saxons were encamped.
A stillness enveloped the valley and surrounding hills, despite the mass of soldiers arrayed there.
“Where are they?” Miles asked. “Do you think they have given up? Did the size of our host scare them off?”
With sudden comprehension, Jobert considered what fools the Saxons would have to be to allow such a large force to attack them, knowing that they had little hope of winning. He shook his head. “I have a feeling that the enemy has already dispersed.”
Miles turned sideways to face him, his dark eyes barely visible through the slits of his helmet. “Should we ride ahead and tell Lord Berkeley of our thoughts?”
Jobert turned to look at the soldiers arrayed behind him “He might be displeased if we break formation.”
Miles nodded and went back to his own men.
They waited. As the time passed, the sunlight gradually faded. Jobert felt the need to relieve himself. His stomach growled. The battle fever piping through his body slowed and then went away.
“God’s bloody bones,” he swore. “This is tedious.
Rob drew up his mount. “Do we wait all day?”
“Berkeley has scouts. Sooner or later, they will return and tell us where the enemy is.”
Rob exhaled a sigh.
At last, a messenger was seen riding up and down the lines. He reached Jobert and said, “The Saxon camp is deserted. It looks as if we’ve scared the bastards off.”
“Our orders?”
“Berkeley says to go back to the town.”
Jobert swore again, more crudely this time, and then went to tell his men the news.
They stared at him “I know it’s a damned waste,” he said, “but we can’t fight an enemy who isn’t there.”
“What happens now?” Hamo asked. “Do we go home, back to Oxbury?”
“We are pledged to stay another fortnight. We’ll probably have to go out in small parties and try to draw the raiders to fight that way.”
Jobert suppressed a groan of frustration as they rode out of the valley. When he thought of what he could be accomplishing at his manor, it made him furious to be trapped here. He’d talked to the chief mason in Berkeley’s train, and the man had agreed to come to Oxbury and draw up plans. Jobert wanted that much accomplished before spring.
And then there was Edeva. He did not wish to leave her so long. He’d grown used to working alongside her, talking with her daily about preparations for the winter, the servants, all the details of running the manor. It surprised him to realize that even more than he longed for her body, he missed her company.
For the thousandth time, he cursed himself for not going to see her before he and his men left to head north. He’d let Alan’s doubts deter him, and at the time, it had seemed the prudent course. He was not yet sure of things between them. Even if Edeva did not plot against him, that did not mean she cared.
Foolishly, ridiculously, he longed for her regard. He wanted more than her acceptance of him as lord of Oxbury. He wanted her to desire him as a man and as a husband. If the king favored his request to wed Edeva, she would have little choice in the matter. Even if she said she did not wish to wed with him.
The thought cut into him like a knife. If that happened, what would he do? Force her to marry him?
Although it was his right to do so, he knew he’d get little satisfaction from such a marriage. He wanted Edeva to be pleased to wed him, to be eager to share his bed.
Which was the mistake he’d made. He should have bedded her again before he left. Seduced her into loving him. She was a passionate woman. If he could please her in bed, she might come to care for him for that reason alone.
“Jesu, it’s quiet here. It makes me uneasy.”
Jobert started as Hamo spoke. He should not get so caught up in his thoughts. What if the Saxons had doubled around and were planning to attack from the rear?
The skin on the back of his neck prickled as he heard a faint whistling noise. Before he realized it was the sound an arrow makes when it leaves the bow, there was a searing pain in his shoulder. He stared, dumbfounded, at the fletched bolt piercing his mail shirt, and heard the gasps and exclamations of his men. Then the pain grabbed him like a giant claw and dragged him down.
* * *
The priest and Fornay were talking as Edeva entered the hall. She regarded the two men suspiciously. She did not trust either one.
“Father Reibald, Sir Alan,” she greeted them. “I wondered if there had been any word from Lord Brevrienne.”
“No word,” Fornay answered.
“You expect none?”
“His term of service is half over. Why should he bother sending a messenger when we will see him within a fortnight.”
“Of course.” She forced a smile, trying to appear empty-headed and helpless. Since Fornay did not approve of cleverness in a woman, she’d decided to pretend to be as guileless as Wulfget. “I hope he returns soon. I have questions I must ask him about the running of the manor.”
Father Reibald regarded her with an oily smile. “Mayhaps it is something you can ask of me, child.”
“Lord Brevrienne promised to decide how much seed-corn should be set aside for the next crop.”
“Not a question for me.” The priest turned to Fornay. “Have you an opinion?”
“Nay,” the Norman knight responded. “Can it not wait until he returns?”
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