Chapter Nine

“Daughter, come and greet our guests.”

Anwyn turned to the door with dread in her heart. She had done her best this day to comply with her father’s expectations. For love of him she had put their quarters in order and made herself presentable, even going so far as to don her best gown and tame her thick hair into a knot beneath her head covering. She had planned a meal and struggled to prepare it at the small hearth, her uneasiness increasing all the day long.

And they came late, her father and his guests, when the dark had nearly fallen and the meat was spoiled and her heart felt like a trapped bird suffering in her chest. She whirled about, telling herself she was prepared for anything, and froze.

There stood her father, indeed, with a man and two children at his side. Her poor heart struggled even more wildly at the sight.

The children—ah, and they were just ordinary children, the boy thin as a bundle of sticks and the lass dressed in a drab gown like the fur of a mouse. All Anwyn’s attention settled on the man. Only, surely he was no man—her father had brought home a troll instead.

Nearly a head shorter than her father, who was not particularly tall, the fellow appeared almost as wide, clad in a leather vest and leggings. Arms beefy as an ordinary man’s legs and a thick, muscular torso contrasted almost grotesquely with a pair of bandy legs.

His hair lay thin on his domed head, patchy and brown, and he had a face like a weathered stump, eyes as small as those of a boar. He resembled a boar withal—squat, bristling, and all strength.

Anwyn smoothed her suddenly damp hands down the front of her dress. Ah, but her father could not be in earnest! He made some cruel joke, a mere attempt to shock her into obedience.

“Daughter, I would have you meet Roderick Havers, the foremost among my foresters, and his children, Agnes and Dennis. Roderick, my daughter, Anwyn.”

The troll grunted. Anwyn could not possibly interpret the sound he emitted any other way. But his eyes were all over her, avid and grasping. Anwyn had seen that look before and knew what it meant.

“Welcome,” she managed to say. “Please make yourselves comfortable. I fear the meal I prepared is a bit overcooked—”

“I am sorry for that, Daughter. We were delayed. Chased a miscreant well into the forest, did we not, Roderick?”

“Tricky devil,” Havers rumbled. His voice sounded like thunder approaching from the distance. Anwyn suddenly imagined hearing it in the dark as he ordered her to his bidding, his hands mauling her as his gaze did even now.

No, no, and no.

“Will you not sit?” she invited, and indicated the table she had laid. The rooms Simon de Asselacton afforded his new head forester were not large but provided a measure of comfort. From the way the two children glanced about, Anwyn could see they were impressed.

And to what quarters were these three entitled? Where would her father expect her to live, if she accepted Havers?

Which she would not. She would sooner decapitate herself.

“I am learning well the abilities of those who dwell in Sherwood,” Anwyn’s father said ruefully, “and around it. The villagers in league with the outlaws will look you straight in the eye and lie barefacedly. ’Tis nearly impossible to tell what is truth.”

“Very little of it,” Havers said, lowering his bulk onto a bench. “We have long been in need of a man such as your father, mistress, to lead this war we wage on behalf of our King.”

“But we need more men,” Montfort put in. “I cannot hope to make inroads with but a group of eight. Anwyn, Roderick here is the best of my men—a fierce fighter and virtually unstoppable when on a charge.”

Like most boars, Anwyn thought, as she brought the food to the table and struggled to look polite.

“If I had another two like this man, I would be well served,” Montfort said.

Havers eyed the food Anwyn had prepared and did not appear impressed. From the look of him, he must be a serious trencherman. Again, Anwyn’s heart struggled in her breast. Perhaps he would refuse to consider her for the sake of his stomach—and her obvious lack of domestic skills.

Yet if he were like most men he was far more interested in her other features. Even as he began eating the food Anwyn served—subjecting each bite to dubious scrutiny—he continued to shoot her glances that stripped her bare: her neck, her shoulders, and on downward, lingering at her breasts as if he sought to measure them.

The two men discussed the situation in Sherwood, Havers roundly denouncing those who dwelt there, while Anwyn fought to remain silent. Women, she knew, were expected to be quiet and respectful, and she could almost feel her father willing her to hold her tongue.

But her father had brought her a troll. Should she care for his wishes?

The ruined meal served, she took her own place at the table and looked at the children. Both were silent, but neither was still. The lad squirmed and emitted an air of spitefulness. He had little resemblance to his father, being thin and sharp featured. The girl, Agnes, the younger of the two, did have the look of her father—poor lass.

“Anwyn is an unusual name, mistress,” Havers said abruptly, apparently having exhausted the sins of the peasantry while Anwyn’s attention strayed.

She looked at her father uncertainly, and he answered, “It is a Welsh name. Her mother came from Gwynedd.”

“Lot of trouble with the Welsh just now.” Havers shoveled a chunk of bread into his mouth and spoke around it. “Treacherous lot, they are. I doubt Henry will ever succeed in putting them down.”

“They have their own laws,” said Anwyn’s father, who always strove to be fair, “and believe in their own sovereignty.”

Havers grunted again. “Aye, but their King is their King. They need to be knocked down a few pegs, just like that lot in Sherwood. Allowed to run wild too long, that is what.” His tiny eyes, the color of dried mud, moved to Anwyn’s face. “Time to apply some discipline. ’Tis the only way. Is that not right, children? Tell Mistress Anwyn how often you two have felt the strap.”

Agnes’s face took on a painful flush, but Dennis slid his eyes to his father’s in a sly look. Anwyn felt for the girl but guessed the lad would be a right handful, the sort who pulled the wings off honeybees, no doubt.

Havers went on almost proudly, speaking to his host but with his gaze still on Anwyn’s face. “I have lost count of the times I have whipped these two since their mother died. But ’tis the surest solution for disobedience.”

“Aye, well…” Anwyn’s father began.

“You cannot be soft, man. It only leads to trouble. And a child—or a wife—will only make mischief when she thinks she can get away with it.”

Anwyn stared at him in horror and then looked at the children again. The lass appeared close to tears. Young Dennis, though, looked like he might cut his father’s throat some night, while the man slept.

Anwyn found herself firmly on Dennis’s side. If ever Havers tried to take the strap to her—or if he attempted to maul her with those rough hands—she would cheerfully stab him in the neck.

“So, ah”—Anwyn’s father cleared his throat—“you have said, my good man, that you are looking to remarry.”

Anwyn glared at her father. He could not be in earnest! Would he still contemplate handing her over to such a brute after hearing his opinions? Her heart smote her. Had she troubled him to such a great measure, with her disobedience, he would be rid of her any way he could?

Sudden tears blurred her vision. In that moment she saw herself as she was—naught but a problem to this man she loved right well, and a source of shame. Surely he meant this encounter as a kind of warning? Surely he merely intended the threat of marriage to this beast-man to frighten her into proper behavior?

Somehow, she endured the rest of that meal and the distressing, limping conversation. She said little and the children less. Havers bragged of himself in a backhanded way, and spouted opinions on everything from the treatment of the peasantry to the actions of his King. With every word he spoke, Anwyn’s opinion of him worsened. By the time he and his two children rose to leave, she could not have been more relieved.

Having spoken her goodnights, she busied herself clearing away the remains of the meal. That did not mean she failed to hear the two men’s whispered conversation at the door.

“Well, Roderick, will she suit?”

“Truly, Master Montfort, there is a deal of rebelliousness there. I can see it clear in her eyes. The unfortunate legacy of her Welsh blood, no doubt.”

Aye, and that would do it, Anwyn thought triumphantly. Her father would never stand to hear a word that impinged her mother, the woman he had adored.

Yet he hissed, “You say you are still willing to take her on?”

“Even Welsh blood can be tamed by the proper hand. And she looks as if she would provide strong sons.”

“She is barely twenty, and in good health.” Her father sounded as if he strove to sell a wayward hound.

Havers lowered his voice further. “You swear to me she is not ruined? I will not take another man’s leavings.”

Anwyn twitched and waited for her father’s reply; he hesitated an instant too long. Did he truly doubt her virtue?

“She vows to me she has kept herself pure.”

Pure, and what was that? Anwyn raged inwardly. Should she save herself only to be violated at the hands of a brute such as this? Pawing at her in the dark, lowering his great bulk upon her—she would never endure it.

Predictably, Havers grunted again. “Aye, well, I will speak to the priest. Pray, Master, keep her close until then.”

“Aye. Good man.”

Pain seared Anwyn’s heart as her father closed the door behind his guests. She turned to face him.

What had she done to make him so eager to be shed of her? Had she killed the great love in his heart?

“Well, Daughter. I know Roderick Havers may not be the sort of husband that ever you thought to accept.”

“He is not.”

“Yet we must consider the present situation. Things are much different here at Nottingham. I will not be able to devote to you the time I did at Shrewsbury. And it becomes evident you are not happy here on your own. I cannot allow a scandal to ruin my chances with Lord Simon. This is a fine place he has given me, one in which I could well rise if I do my job well.”

“So,” said Anwyn, her heart breaking, “you would give me to him? Father, what have I done to make you hate me so?”

Her father’s face crumpled in a troubled frown. “Anwyn, I do not hate you. Quite the contrary. Can you not see how I fear for you? Left to your own devices, you can only come to great harm.”

“And,” Anwyn’s voice trembled, “will I not come to grief beneath the strap that brute means to use on me? Da, would you truly condemn me to that?”

Her father caught her hands in his. “Anwyn, lass, he will only use you ill if you push him to it. He is a good, steady man.”

“I do not want this!”

“Aye, but Anwyn, you leave me no choice.” His fingers clasped hers painfully. “Can you promise me you will no longer run wild about Nottingham?” His eyes caught hers. “Can you vow it to me once more, and not lie?”

Tears choked Anwyn so she could not speak. She did not want to lie to him. She shook her head. How could she hope to explain the great restlessness that possessed her, that pushed and pulled until she felt half mad with desire for something she could not name?

Her father’s expression cooled. “Then, Daughter, I must think of myself for once, and of keeping this fortunate place that has fallen to me.” He drew a breath. “Accept it, Anwyn; Roderick will speak to the priest, and you will be wed.”