Svend galloped to the head of the valley, trying to outrun his bad mood. She was maddening! Barely a slip of a woman, but what she lacked in size she more than made up for in temper. She hated Normans, that was obvious, but why couldn’t she understand that he was simply her escort, not her enemy? All he wanted was to get her to Redbourn as quickly and uneventfully as possible. Was that too much to ask, or was she going to argue with him all the way?
He placed a hand on his chest, vaguely surprised to find himself still in one piece. Had he taken leave of his senses, handing her a knife? What had made him so certain she wouldn’t use it? He grimaced. He hadn’t been certain at all, but something in her face had made him want to find out. The desire to test her had outweighed everything else, even self-preservation.
Well, now he knew. She didn’t want to kill him—not today at least. That was a minor improvement.
He rubbed a hand over Talbot’s neck, slowing the destrier to a trot. On the other hand, her anger that morning had been largely his fault. He shouldn’t have mocked her as she’d tried to mount the palfrey, shouldn’t have deliberately provoked her temper, but it had been easier than admitting the unwelcome urges she’d aroused in him. Those eyes...even when she was in a temper they lit up her whole face. He could hardly keep his own off her. Checking her for weapons had been harder than he’d expected—in more ways than one. When he’d finally lifted her up, wrapping his hands around her waist and feeling the soft pliancy of her body beneath, it had taken all his self-control to release her again.
He clenched his jaw, resenting his orders anew. He was a warrior, not an escort. He ought to be hunting rebels, not escorting Saxon ladies! Women had no place in his soldier’s world—especially this woman, who somehow angered and appealed to him in equal measure. He couldn’t help but admire her feisty spirit, the way she flared up like a spark catching light, but she was more than infuriating. If she were anyone else he might enjoy watching the sparks fly, but she wasn’t. She was his prisoner, and if he had any sense he’d keep as far away from her as possible.
If it were only that easy... Redbourn was still three and a half days’ ride away. And suddenly that seemed like a very long time.
* * *
Aediva awoke with a jolt, catching her breath as the earth swayed and then righted itself in front of her. Quickly she hauled herself upright, half amazed, half alarmed to have fallen asleep in the saddle, the night’s exertions finally catching up with her.
Blinking rapidly, she glared at the back of Svend’s broad shoulders, easily visible at the head of their small procession. He hadn’t so much as glanced in her direction since they’d left Etton. Not that she cared, but he was supposed to be her escort. He might have checked that she was all right—not left her to fend for herself. It would serve him right if she fell off her palfrey and broke a leg. Let him explain that to FitzOsbern!
She stole a furtive glance at the rest of his soldiers. There were around a dozen of them, most as grim and indomitable-looking as their commander, though a few were younger. One of them had a swollen eye, she noticed. It looked a fresh wound too.
She put a hand to her mouth, stifling another yawn. If she could only rest for a while... Her head lolled and her eyelids drooped. No! She mustn’t fall asleep. If she fell from this height it would be a lot more dangerous than from the ponies she was used to. She had to stay awake...even if she just dozed for a moment...
She felt a sudden strong grip on her arm, snatching her back to consciousness.
‘I told you to get some rest last night!’ Svend’s voice was low and furious. ‘You should have slept!’
‘What?’ She looked around, disorientated, cheeks flushing self-consciously.
What was he doing there? She’d been dreaming of a man with white-yellow hair and a smile so mesmerising it took her breath away—a man bearing so little resemblance to the one looming beside her now that she wrenched her arm out of his grasp indignantly.
‘Let me go!’ She tossed her head, trying to salvage some small shred of dignity. ‘I’m perfectly all right.’
‘Good.’ The ice in his stare could have caused frostbite. ‘We’ve a long way to go and we’re not stopping for you to sleep.’
‘I didn’t ask to stop! I told you I’m all right.’
‘Have you eaten?’
‘What?’ Now that he mentioned it, she hadn’t eaten anything since the broth he’d given her last night. Her mouth watered at the memory. No wonder she felt so light-headed.
‘I asked if you’d eaten.’ He sounded impatient.
‘I’m not hungry.’ She grasped her stomach quickly, stifling a growl. Why had he made her think of food? Now it was all she could think about!
‘Really?’ He raised an eyebrow sceptically.
‘It’s your fault for mentioning food!’
Glaring, she turned her attention back to the road. They’d been riding at a punishing pace all morning, but she’d hardly paid any heed to their surroundings, concentrating on staying awake. Now the road ahead looked vaguely and disturbingly familiar, like a scene from some half-remembered nightmare. They were at the far edge of Etton territory, where farmland gave way to scree and boulders. The next hill marked the furthest boundary of their land, and over there...
She pulled on her reins so fiercely that the palfrey stopped with a jolt, almost throwing her head-over-heels into the dirt, but she didn’t notice. All she could feel was the cold sweat on her brow and a heavy pounding like a hammer in her chest. She knew this place—knew every detail of the landscape, every rock and boulder, just as it had been on the day she’d ridden to her dying father’s side. She hadn’t ridden this way since—hadn’t wanted to come back. Not ever.
Desperately she gulped for air, caught off guard by the sudden onslaught of emotion. How could she not have noticed the route they were taking? She could have prepared herself, or at least tried to. Now she felt as though she were falling apart at the seams. But she couldn’t cry, couldn’t show weakness—not in front of him!
‘What now?’ Svend glanced back over his shoulder, his look of impatience giving way instantly to one of concern. ‘Lady Cille, what’s the matter?’
She shook her head, unable to speak, tried to gesture instead.
‘There’s something wrong with the road?’
He sounded confused and she dragged her eyes to his, trying to communicate without words.
He swung around instantly, summoning his men with a few curt orders.
‘We’ll curve through the next valley and re-join the road later. Is that better?’
She heard the words, but could hardly take in their meaning, her whole attention fixed on the track ahead. Now she was there she couldn’t drag herself away. Ghostly figures filled her imagination...the past replaying itself in the present. Where had her father fallen? She sought for the place, her gaze settling at last on a large lichen-covered boulder. There, next to that rock, was where she’d found him—too late to help, too late to do anything but grieve.
‘Lady Cille?’ Svend moved across her line of vision. ‘Come away.’
Without waiting for assent he took hold of her bridle, steering her aside as she wiped the tears from her face with her sleeve. She hadn’t even known that she was crying; the tears had seeped out of their own volition.
At last her heartbeat returned to normal and she looked around again. They’d re-joined the road at the end of the valley and were riding up into the hills, avoiding the quicker route through the marshes to the south. She understood the Normans’ reluctance to enter the low swamplands. It was too easy to get lost amongst the tall reed-beds or mired down in a muddy quagmire. Not to mention that the men of the marshes were known to be a law unto themselves, and the swamps provided the perfect setting for an ambush. Only the most inexperienced or reckless of leaders would enter such terrain lightly, and she had the strong feeling that her captor was neither.
She glanced towards him apprehensively, expecting questions, but he stayed silent, face averted as if to give her privacy.
‘You must wonder why...’
He made a dismissive gesture. ‘You don’t need to explain.’
‘No, but...’
She faltered. But what...? But she wanted to tell someone? She’d stayed strong for so long—for her people, for Cille—that she thought the words might burst out of her. No, she didn’t just want to tell someone, she had to—even a Norman. Her grief was so deep it seemed to drown out every other emotion, even hatred.
She took a deep breath. ‘My father died there.’
‘Ah...’ He was silent for a moment, as if letting her words sink in. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘He was stabbed in a skirmish with Norman soldiers last winter.’
A muscle jumped in his jaw. ‘What happened?’
‘He thought he was defending his land, but he was a farmer, not a fighter. He wouldn’t yield, so a Norman soldier killed him. It might have been you.’
‘It wasn’t.’
His tone was sharp and she felt a momentary twinge of guilt. She shouldn’t have said that—not when he was being sympathetic.
‘How many soldiers?’ He sounded angry now.
She bit her lip, wondering how much she could tell him without giving away her real identity. Cille hadn’t arrived in Etton until almost a month after their father’s death, but surely there was no way he could know that.
‘There were four of them.’
‘Renegades, then, not a garrison. Were they wearing a crest?’
‘None that I know of. Why?’
‘If there were a way to identify them it might still be possible to bring them to justice.’
‘The Earl would side with Saxons over Norman soldiers?’
‘No. But there are other means.’
She glanced at him in surprise. He looked implacable now, every inch the warrior, fierce and forbidding, as if he might truly avenge her father. She felt a flicker of hope, quickly suppressed. Words were easy, but why would a Norman knight care about one murdered Thane? Yet something in his face told her he meant it.
‘Why?’ she demanded. ‘Why would you avenge him?’
He looked at her askance. ‘Because a man shouldn’t be slain for protecting his land or his people.’
She lowered her gaze, swallowing against the lump in her throat. That pit in her stomach had opened up again, cold and empty like a wintry chasm.
‘He was a good man.’
‘I’m certain of it.’
‘We were very close. When it happened...so soon after Hastings...after everything else... I felt like the whole world had collapsed. I’d never felt so alone. And ever since...’
She bit her tongue abruptly. Why was she telling him this? Of all people, why was she pouring her heart out to her enemy? No matter how carefully she phrased it, or how sympathetic he might seem, she couldn’t risk confiding in him. One slip and she might give everything away. He was the last person in the world she should talk to.
She pursed her lips, trying to regain her composure. She couldn’t risk Cille’s safety just to ease her own pain. No matter how much it hurt, no matter how badly she needed to talk to someone, she had to bury her feelings—just as she had for the past year. Like everything else, she had to bear them alone.
* * *
Svend stole a glance at her tear-streaked face and swore inwardly. He hadn’t known about her father’s death. Something else the Earl hadn’t told him. No wonder she hated Normans.
The rawness of her emotion had disturbed him more than he would have expected, reawakening that strange, uncharacteristic need to comfort her. Would she accept comfort from him? Would she want it? Hell’s teeth, he wasn’t some maid with soft words and a shoulder to cry on. What was he supposed to say?
He changed the subject instead.
‘Your sister obviously knows about farming. These lands are thriving.’
That much was true. On their journey outwards lowering rainclouds had obscured much of the beauty of the landscape, but now that the weather had cleared he could see how well the fields had been managed. The rolling hills reminded him of his parents’ farm, causing a pang of longing in his chest. Since leaving Danemark he’d buried his homesickness deep within himself, never expecting to find a home or hearth of his own again. Now the idea was unexpectedly appealing—as if he’d found something he hadn’t known he’d been searching for. The King had promised to reward him for his services. Would he offer him land? A man could do worse than put down roots in a place like this. Strange how much his attitudes had changed since arriving in Etton...
‘You know about farming?’ She caught his eye, her own eyes filled with begrudging interest.
‘I grew up on a farm.’
‘In Normandy?’
‘No.’ He sighed. ‘I’m not Norman, remember?’
‘Oh.’ She didn’t apologise. ‘Did you grow flax?’
‘Flax?’ His eyebrows shot up. If she’d asked whether he’d spun gold he couldn’t have felt more surprised. ‘No, our climate was too cold.’
‘Aediva is thinking of growing it here next year. What do you think?’
‘What do I think?’ He hadn’t thought that she cared for his opinion on anything. ‘It’s a tough enough crop, and the land here seems fertile. With a sunny site, it should prosper.’
She gave an enigmatic smile. ‘That’s what she thought.’
He looked across at her quizzically. Who was she, this woman? In the space of one morning his feelings towards her had veered from anger to exasperation to pity, and now they were talking about farming? He wasn’t accustomed to discussing such matters with women. The ladies of William’s court were more concerned with fashion and gossip, but Lady Cille seemed genuinely interested. Not to mention that this was the first conversation they’d had that hadn’t descended into insults or arguing.
‘I didn’t think an ealdorman’s wife would take such an interest in farming.’
‘It’s important to know your land. Don’t Norman ladies take any interest in their crops?’
‘None that I know of.’
‘Do their husbands, at least?’
‘Some of them. The rest have stewards for the work they consider beneath them.’
She made a contemptuous sound. ‘Didn’t you like farming either? Is that why you became a soldier?’
‘No. I liked it well enough.’
‘So what are you doing here?’
He frowned. ‘You’re very curious. Not to mention persistent.’
‘I believe I said something similar last night. Or are questions a Norman prerogative?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Well, then. You know all about me. You might as well tell me something about yourself.’
‘Might as well?’ He quirked an eyebrow. ‘How can I refuse such a charming request?’
‘Don’t you think it’s wise to learn as much as you can about your enemy?’
‘Escort.’
‘Captor. Especially if he’s hiding something.’
He glanced at her suspiciously. How did she know that? Normally he rebuffed any questions about his early life, letting people assume he’d simply been born in a barracks. He’d already told her more than he’d intended—more than he had told most of his acquaintance in a year. His past was...complicated. And far too painful to reveal to a woman he’d known for little more than a day. Besides, her opinion of him was low enough already. How much lower would it sink if she knew the truth?
Why was he even still talking to her?
‘What makes you think there’s anything to hide?’
‘I’m just trying to make sense of you, that’s all.’
‘I don’t make sense?’
‘Not when you turn every question around!’
Damn it, she was more observant than he’d expected. Most people didn’t notice how little he told them. This was what came of letting his guard down and trying to comfort her. Typical of a woman to turn his better instincts against him! And yet for some inexplicable reason he couldn’t tear himself away.
‘I fell into soldiering, if you must know. And I was good at it.’
‘So you’re a mercenary?’
‘What?’ If she’d been a man he would have struck her for such a question. ‘You just assume that I’m a sword for hire? Knights don’t tend to be mercenaries—even Norman ones.’
‘How am I supposed to know that? I didn’t mean to offend you.’
He rolled his eyes in frustration. That was probably as close to an apology as he was likely to get.
‘I’m starting to think I shouldn’t leave you alone with FitzOsbern. I’m afraid of what you might say.’
‘Is he so easily offended?’
‘He’s the King’s cousin—the Earl of Hereford, Gloucester, Worcestershire and Oxfordshire. What do you think?’
She shrugged. ‘I think he sounds busy.’
‘He’s not a man to be trifled with.’
‘Maybe not, but you still haven’t answered my question. Why did you leave your homeland? To find somewhere warmer?’
‘If I’d wanted a better climate I wouldn’t have gone to Normandy, let alone come here. This must be the first dry day since we arrived.’
‘Perhaps your King should have checked the climate before he invaded.’
He smiled in surprise. Was that a joke? She was being sarcastic, but for the first time there was no venom behind her words. On the contrary, her voice was soft, thoughtful, surprisingly mellifluous. Perhaps there was hope for her yet...
‘I’ll be sure to warn him next time.’
‘So where will you go next?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You seem to like travelling.’
‘It hasn’t always been by choice. But I might not go anywhere. A man needs to put down roots some time.’
Her body jerked suddenly. ‘You mean you want to stay here?’
‘Maybe. The King rewards his knights.’
‘And he’s going to reward you?’
‘Yes.’
‘For capturing me?’
‘In part.’
‘With land? Saxon land?’
He threw her a pointed look. ‘Norman land now.’
‘Somewhere like Etton?’
‘Perhaps.’
She rounded on him angrily. ‘So that’s it? You’re only admiring the land because you want to steal it!’
‘Steal it?’ He sighed heavily. ‘Hell’s teeth, I have already told you—your marriage will allow you to keep your land.’
‘And I have already told you I don’t want to marry a Norman!’ Her gaze narrowed suddenly. ‘Besides, what about Aediva?’
‘What about her?’
‘She’s lived in Etton her whole life. Where’s she supposed to go?’
‘I’m sure arrangements can be made.’
‘You don’t even care!’
‘Why should I? Am I supposed to care about every woman in England? One of you is bad enough.’
She muttered something under her breath and he ran a hand through his hair in frustration.
‘For pity’s sake, woman, what do you intend to do if you don’t marry again? If you’re thinking about joining the rebels, then don’t. I’ve seen your sword skills.’
‘I’ll think of something.’
‘Do that.’ He clenched his jaw in exasperation. ‘It’s still a long way to Redbourn. I’d use the time to think, if I were you.’
* * *
Aediva turned her face away, not wanting to look at him a second longer. So that was why he’d been talking about farming! She’d actually thought he’d been trying to comfort her, to distract her from painful memories, but instead he’d been thinking about claiming her home for himself! And she’d been naive enough to feel grateful, talking to him as she might to a Saxon, as if he were someone other than her enemy!
She was still fuming as they crested the hill and started down the other side, looking out over a wide green expanse that curved all the way down to Redbourn, where William FitzOsbern was waiting for her.
The thought made her shudder.
‘You’re shivering.’ Svend’s voice was matter-of-fact now, without even a trace of sympathy. ‘Renard! See if we have anything warmer for the lady to wear.’
She tossed her head, still refusing to look at him. Somehow she doubted that Renard would find anything. The Normans seemed to be wearing all of their clothing at once, wrapped up as if for the deepest of winters. All except Svend. He was wearing only a linen tunic under his gambeson, as if he were immune to the chill easterly wind.
Her mind flew back to the birthing chamber and the fur-lined cloak he’d draped so carefully around Cille’s trembling shoulders. Why wasn’t he wearing it now? Unless...
Her head spun back towards him. ‘You gave her your cloak?’
His brow creased as his gaze slipped past her shoulder, studying the horizon as if there were something of intense interest behind her.
‘She was in greater need.’
‘Oh.’ The word sounded ungrateful even to her own ears.
There was a long silence, broken only by the screeching of a kestrel overhead, before he drew rein abruptly.
‘Hold!’ He jumped down easily, striding away from the horses without bothering to help her dismount. ‘We’ll rest for a while.’
Aediva lowered herself to the ground, her mind at war with itself. He was a pig! Disrespectful, callous and insensitive, not to mention ungallant—and yet, much as she hated to admit it, overall his behaviour had been surprisingly honourable.
She stole a glance at his profile. He was staring into the distance, his expression stern, aloof... Norman. He looked like a Norman, sounded like a Norman, and yet despite his ill manners he’d behaved more like a Saxon might have done—as Edmund ought to have done. Since they’d met she’d told him she hated him, threatened to kill him, held a knife to his chest twice, and yet he hadn’t punished her. He’d taken care of Cille and sent Henri to rescue her people. He’d noticed when she was upset, when she was cold, when she was hungry and tired. In retrospect, she’d been less than grateful.
And, as a Thane’s daughter, it was her duty to acknowledge it, no matter how angry she felt.
She took a deep, faltering breath. ‘What I said this morning...’
‘About wanting to stab me in the heart?’ He turned to face her, arms folded as if braced for a fresh verbal assault.
‘Yes. I didn’t mean it.’
‘Really?’ He sounded sceptical.
‘I was angry.’
‘I noticed.’
‘And I’m sorry.’
His expression remained stony and she sighed inwardly. Clearly he wasn’t going to make this easy. How was it possible for a Norman to make her feel like the one in the wrong? But she still had to thank him. That was what her father would expect her to do.
‘I owe you my thanks. For taking care of my sister, for sending your man after our people. I should have thanked you this morning.’
‘Instead of threatening to kill me, perhaps?’
She gritted her teeth. ‘Instead of that, yes.’
‘But...?’
‘But what?’
‘Speak honestly, Lady Cille. I don’t like half-truths. You’re sorry for this morning, and you’re grateful to me, but...?’
She stared at him, taken aback by his bluntness. How did he do that? Trap her with her own words? She’d been trying to thank him. Why couldn’t he just leave it at that?
‘Well?’ He prompted her.
‘Can’t you just accept my thanks? I have said I’m grateful.’
‘But you’re still angry.’
‘Yes, I’m angry!’ She felt her temper rising again. Of course she was angry! What else would she be?
‘Because...?’
‘Because you’re still one of them—a Norman, or as good as. I can’t help but hate you for it!’
She glared at him unrepentantly, caught up in the moment. That was the truth. Hadn’t he asked for it? No matter how sorry for her behaviour or how grateful for his she might be, they were still enemies. That was obvious...wasn’t it?
‘So you hate all Normans?’ His voice was expressionless. ‘Your new husband will be pleased to hear that.’
‘I can’t help it.’
‘Do you always hate so indiscriminately?’
‘I have good cause!’
‘Yes.’ His expression turned sombre. ‘Yes, in this case you do.’
‘So?’
‘So is it really that simple? Saxon good? Norman bad? Take your sister’s husband, for instance. You say he abandoned her, a vulnerable woman, and their unborn baby. Do you still think well of him just because he’s Saxon?’
She reeled backwards, staggering as if he’d just hit her. The words were so closely akin to her own thoughts that she had to turn her face away to hide her mortification. She didn’t want to talk about Edmund, especially not with him.
‘That’s different.’
‘Is it? I’m capable of many things, Lady Cille, but I hope not that.’
‘You don’t know anything about it!’
‘No, I don’t, but the world isn’t all black and white. Hate is a very strong word.’
‘Sometimes it fits very well!’
His mouth twitched, though his expression was mirthless. ‘If you’re saying we can’t be friends, then for once we’re in agreement. As for your hatred of Normans...for your own sake I hope that you might overcome it.’
‘For my own sake? Is that a threat?’
‘It’s a warning. You should think about it before meeting the Earl. Or your new husband, for that matter.’
She opened her mouth to retaliate and then closed it again. He had a point. She wouldn’t be able to persuade FitzOsbern to do anything, let alone release her—Cille—from the planned marriage if she charged in arguing and threatening. She’d have to learn to hide her true feelings, her true hatred of Normans, if she were going to stand any chance of success.
As for this new husband—she fully intended to make herself as disagreeable to him as possible. After all he’d never met Cille, wouldn’t know what to expect. With any luck she’d put him off Saxon women for ever.
A gust of wind caught her cloak unexpectedly, making it billow open, and Svend reacted at once, catching the edges and pulling them back together at her throat. She gasped, startled. The gesture seemed too intimate, unexpectedly tender, as if he were wrapping her tight in his arms. For a fleeting moment she felt safe and warm, as if the emptiness inside her had been banished, replaced by a warm glow that seemed to radiate outwards, along every nerve ending from the top of her head to the tip of her toes.
She looked up in alarm, saw his eyes flash with something like surprise before they both pulled away at the same moment.
He averted his gaze. ‘Believe it or not, I’m trying to help.’
She cleared her throat, trying not to think about what had just happened. Even if that were true, she wasn’t going to thank him for it. She hadn’t asked for and certainly didn’t want advice from a Norman!
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Well, that’s progress.’ He sighed. ‘Now, get some rest. I want to be a third of the way to Redbourn by nightfall and I don’t want you falling asleep on the ride.’