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At the mercy of her enemy!
Abducted by Saxon outlaws, Constance Arnaud comes face-to-face with Aelric, a Saxon boy she once loved. He’s now her enemy, but Constance must reach out to this rebel and persuade him to save her life as she once saved his...
Aelric is determined to seek vengeance on the Normans who destroyed his family. Believing Constance deserted him, he can never trust her again. Yet, as they are thrown together and their longing for each other reignites, will Aelric discover that love is stronger than revenge?
‘We loved each other once, didn’t we?’ she asked in a whisper.
‘Did we? What did we know about love?’ The corner of his mouth twitched. ‘We were barely more than children, just waking up to what our bodies sought.’
It had been love to her, and to hear him dismiss it as nothing more than the lust all men felt cracked her heart. She swallowed down her grief and continued with her plan.
‘What does your heart want now?’ Constance whispered. ‘What does your body want?’
She reached a hand to his chest, spreading her fingers wide. She felt his intake of breath, saw the pulse at his throat quicken. His hand sought her waist, tugging her closer until they were face to face. He bared his teeth in a grimace that might have been passion or hatred.
‘I want you,’ he growled. ‘But this will not end well. It can’t.’
His voice had an edge to it she had not heard before, but which spoke of danger. She knew then that she had him.
Author Note
After the Norman Conquest of England in 1066 there was a period of rebellion that lasted until 1069. This resulted in William’s retribution, known as the Harrying of the North. Men escaped across the borders into Scotland or Wales, returning to fight their oppressors and carry out raids. Additionally, many of the barons appointed by William saw the uncertain times as an opportunity to increase their own land and status.
Dispossessed Saxons who refused to submit to their oppressors took refuge in the forests of England. They became known as ‘silvatici’ or ‘wildmen’. Among the most well-known were Hereward the Wake and Eadric the Wild, both of whom eventually reached peace with their new rulers and were pardoned. It is these men and others like them who are my basis for Aelric.
This story takes place in Cheshire. Hamestan is the name given in the Domesday Book to the Hundred that covers the area where I now live. Readers wishing to investigate the locations that inspired me should search for Alderley Edge, Mow Cop, Lud’s Church and The Roaches. Thanks go to my husband and children for accompanying me on frequent muddy walks.
As always, each of my books has a song. This time it was ‘It’s All Coming Back to Me Now’. The best version, in my opinion, is by Pandora’s Box.
The Saxon Outlaw’s Revenge
Elisabeth Hobbes
www.millsandboon.co.uk
ELISABETH HOBBES grew up in York, where she spent most of her teenage years wandering around the city looking for a handsome Roman or Viking to sweep her off her feet. Elisabeth’s hobbies include skiing, Arabic dance and fencing—none of which has made it into a story yet. When she isn’t writing she spends her time reading, and is a pro at cooking while holding a book! Elisabeth lives in Cheshire with her husband, two children and three cats with ridiculous names.
Books by Elisabeth Hobbes
Mills & Boon Historical Romance
Falling for Her Captor
A Wager for the Widow
The Blacksmith’s Wife
The Saxon Outlaw’s Revenge
Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk.
To Laura and Tim,
for endless speculation about what was in the box.
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
Introduction
Author Note
Title Page
About the Author
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Extract
Copyright
Chapter One
Cheshire—1068
They hanged the rebels in the market square. Rain hung in the air. Heavy drizzle that characterised this part of England: thicker than mist and turning the world grey and damp.
A cheerless day for a brutal act.
Constance Arnaud wished she could leave this cold, unwelcoming country and return to Normandy where the sun was visible some days even in October. She wiggled her twisted foot to rid herself of the dull ache that ran from her toes to knee and pulled her fur-trimmed cloak tighter. She tipped the hood forward. The folds of heavy wool would not block out the sounds, but she would not have to watch the men die.
The old thegn stood between two guards, his fine tunic torn and filthy with blood and grime. He wore fetters but was bowed down by more than the weight of the chains that held him.
‘Brunwulf, formerly Thegn of Hamestan, for conspiring to incite revolt, your remaining land and title is forfeit. As tenant-in-chief for my liege and King, it is my duty and right to pass this sentence on you.’
From the dais Baron Robert de Coudray’s voice rang clear across the square. A muttering of anger rippled around the crowd, dying away quickly as the soldiers raised their weapons.
Constance wondered how many of the serfs and villeins that huddled behind makeshift railings understood what her brother-in-law had said. She had lived in England for eighteen months, but a year after moving from Winchester to Cheshire the accent still seemed thick and impenetrable to her ears.
‘Your life and the lives of those who raised swords against your King are also forfeit,’ Robert continued.
Brunwulf raised his head at this and stared at Robert. His eyes were bruised and almost forced shut with the swelling, but the hatred in them was clear. He spat a reply, the name and sentiment familiar to Constance.
‘The Bastard of Normandy is no King of mine.’
Another murmur, this time of approval, sped round the gathered people and a few cries of agreement rose up. Constance shifted nervously. People must have come from half of Cheshire to witness today’s executions and, though these were farmers and craftsmen, serfs and women, there were a lot more of them than there were soldiers in the baron’s retinue.
Robert’s cheeks reddened as he bellowed his reply. ‘The crown has been William’s for two years. We rule England now. If you had submitted you could have retained control of your lands as our vassals, but you refused to see sense. Now you will pay the penalty.’
A cruel light shone in the baron’s eyes. ‘You will be the last to die. You will watch the deaths of your countrymen and sons first though, so you understand how utterly you have failed. Let this be a warning to any who think to oppose us.’
Robert jerked a thumb and a dozen bound men were brought forward from the heavily guarded cart and pushed to their knees alongside the thegn. They bore the same signs of rough treatment as Brunwulf and like him wore clothes that once spoke of quality. These were not serfs or slaves, but thegns and housecarls themselves.
Three at a time the condemned men were dragged up the steps to the scaffold in the centre of the square and nooses tightened around their necks. As the first three executions were carried out wails of sorrow broke out among the crowd. The voices of wives and mothers, sisters or lovers. The soldiers standing in front of the huddled, grieving women crossed their pikes to hold them back in case the women rushed forward in attack. Constance could not help the sigh that escaped her.
Sitting between Constance and the baron, Robert’s wife turned pale.
‘Don’t pity them,’ Jeanne de Coudray whispered harshly. ‘What compassion would they have spared us? Would they have cared if we had starved?’
Constance reached for her sister’s hand and squeezed tightly. The answering flutter was so slight it tore at Constance’s heart. Jeanne was six years older than Constance, but would have passed for double that. Fifteen months of marriage to Lord de Coudray had destroyed any softness Jeanne had once possessed and beaten the bloom from her cheeks. Seeing her sister change into this wraith reminded Constance how fortunate it was that though she was prettier than Jeanne, her twisted foot had prevented Robert choosing her as his bride when the sisters were offered.
Constance stared back at the faces that blurred into a mass of pale eyes and shades of blond hair, so different to her own dark eyes and hair. She knew they hated her and all her countrymen. The women would have doubtless rejoiced at their grief and spat on her pity, but Constance remembered the sorrow that had numbed her following the death of her father at the Battle of Senlac. Her heart still broke for them. She wiped a hand across her eyes and looked at the ground, pulling the hood further forward so she did not have to think about the bodies twisting in the biting wind.
‘Open your eyes and watch how those who would threaten your King die, girl,’ Robert commanded in an undertone. ‘Don’t shame me before these Saxon savages or I’ll whip the skin from your back.’
Constance raised her head obediently and forced herself to watch as man after man was lifted high alive and cut down a corpse. Some resisted as the knots were pulled tight, one or two looked on the verge of weeping; others walked with dignity to their deaths. Without exception all spat towards the dais where Robert’s household sat, fixing any Norman who met their eye with a loathing that made Constance shiver with fear.
Their deaths were not quick or easy, but if the uprising had not been prevented and they had joined with those in other counties, how slow and degrading would her death at their hands have been? She’d heard the tales of what had happened elsewhere, of children speared in their beds and women shared between the rebels until they begged for death. Even a twist-footed cripple like Constance would not be spared the degradation. Jeanne was right, it was relief she should feel, not pity.
Finally only three men remained alive. Their ages spanned a decade at least, but the reddish tint in their straw-blond hair and beards marked them as Brunwulf’s sons. The youngest, a man in his middle twenties, could barely walk. His leg was bound to a splint and he clenched his teeth with pain as he was half-carried up the steps. As they were pushed forward to the waiting nooses Brunwulf finally groaned aloud with despair and to Constance it seemed he shrank in stature before her eyes. The eldest called something to his father, his words rapid and in a dialect so thick Constance could not make out a single word. Brunwulf’s lips twisted into a grimace. He nodded and his sons raised their heads to stare at the baron defiantly. As one man they leapt off the ladders, causing their necks to break with the violence of their swing.
Without warning a roar of rage erupted from the back of the crowd. Robert leapt to his feet. People began muttering and jostling as a figure pushed through them. Someone screamed in alarm. Brunwulf swore.
Robert barked orders rapidly and soldiers plunged in among the gathered watchers to find the source, roughly knocking people aside. Cries of indignation and alarm filled the air until eventually two soldiers returned dragging a struggling figure dressed in a dark blue cloak. The soldiers marched to the dais and threw their captive to the ground in front of Robert. One dropped a short sword alongside him. The other ripped the cloak from him and threw it aside, revealing a scrawny figure dressed in a worn tunic and hose with leg bindings where a sheathed dagger was stuffed. He pulled the dagger loose and threw it alongside the sword.
As the prisoner raised his face to glare at his captors Constance got her first clear look at his face. The sight caused her stomach to knot and vomit to rise in her throat. She gave an involuntary start forward in her seat.
Jeanne touched her arm gently and looked at her questioningly.
‘Are you in pain?’
Constance shook her head and gave a half-smile, hoping her sister could not read the shock in her expression. She sat back, her mind whirling and filled with memories of occasions she had put behind her. Unconsciously she raised a hand to her lips, then realised what she had done, lowered it quickly and looked at the boy on the ground.
Aelric. Brunwulf’s youngest son.
To call him a boy was unjust. He was young and couldn’t yet be described as a full-grown man, but he was older than Constance by a year or two. He did not resemble his father at all. His tangled hair was reddish-blond and flopped across angular cheeks that were barely graced with a downy beard. Whereas Brunwulf was burly, Aelric had long limbs that he had not grown to fit completely.
As long as she had lived in Hamestan he had been there as Lord De Coudray’s ward, though everyone knew ward was another word for prisoner, lodged within the manor grounds as a guarantee of his father’s obedience. And now his father had broken that peace in the worst way possible and the boy would suffer. He had vanished from Hamestan after the uprising had been quashed and Constance had hoped he would have been long gone.
One of the soldiers twisted an arm up behind the boy’s back to what looked like breaking point. He seized hold of him by the hair and wrenched his head back, causing the boy to let out a string of expletives, only some of which Constance knew.
‘Why are you here?’ Robert demanded. ‘I thought you had fled to save your neck.’
‘I came to save my father,’ the boy shouted. He winced and gave a gasp of pain through gritted teeth as the soldier twisted his arm higher.
‘You’re too late for that,’ Robert said coldly.
‘Then I will avenge his death and those of my brothers,’ Aelric snarled.
Constance glanced at the men swinging from the ropes and their father waiting in chains. Brunwulf stood, shoulders tense and expression stricken. Robert left the dais and walked to where the boy knelt in the mud. When he reached Aelric he leaned over, putting his face close to the boy’s.
‘And how do you propose to do that, Aelric, son of Brunwulf?’ Robert asked. His voice had taken on the cold, mocking tone that Constance had come to dread.
Aelric’s blue eyes bored into Robert, staring down the man twenty years his senior.
‘By killing you.’
Robert was silent. The crowd hushed in frozen expectation. Constance gripped Jeanne’s hand, waiting for Robert’s response. For him to strike the boy or run him through. Instead he did something unexpected, yet far crueller.
He laughed.
Aelric’s face reddened.
Robert waved a dismissive hand and turned away.
‘Hang him with his father.’
The soldiers seized hold of Aelric, who cried out and struggled as they dragged him towards his father. Constance’s stomach twisted as if someone had taken a stick and wound it through her guts, coiling it tight.
‘Please don’t!’
The words left her mouth before she could stop herself. She realised she had pushed herself to her feet.
‘What do you think you’re doing, girl?’ Robert rounded on Constance, his face knotted with fury far greater than he had shown to the condemned men or the boy. The blood in her veins turned to ice, but she could feel her face flushing. The eyes of everyone in the square were on her.
‘Set him free,’ Constance said.
‘Why should I do that?’ Robert demanded incredulously.
‘He’s so young,’ she said softly.
‘Should I wait until he’s older? I’m sure we can find a gaol for him until he’s managed to grow hair on his chest,’ Robert scoffed.
Aelric looked up and his eyes met Constance’s. The sick feeling returned.
‘He helped me once,’ Constance said, aware of the heat rising to her cheeks. ‘When my horse lost a shoe last winter.’
It had been a cold January day. Her horse slipped in the mud as she rode along the gritstone ridge. The half-familiar boy working in the fields under guard had left his position to take hold of the bridle. Speaking calm, unfamiliar words—to the animal or her she wasn’t sure—he’d held the animal still while she remounted. She’d thanked him, nervously trying out the Saxon tongue. He’d grinned at her attempt, but kindly, before returning to his companions. They had looked at her with the contempt she’d come to expect, but he glanced back and nodded before walking away.
She told her brother-in-law only part of that. Not that they had met again. Times met and deeds done that she must not think of for fear Robert would read the emotions on her face.
‘And because of that I should pardon his attempt to murder me today?’ Robert asked.
Vomit rose again in Constance’s throat. She had been nauseous for days with the anxiety of what today would bring. What attempt had it been really? Aelric could never have succeeded. Robert had been in no danger and he knew it.
‘Not my boy,’ Brunwulf begged.
‘Your boy was safe while you obeyed me,’ Robert mused. ‘Why should he live now?’
‘He took no part in the uprising. I saw to it he knew nothing of what we planned.’
Murmurs of agreement fluttered across the square. Brunwulf dropped to his knees in supplication.
‘If you spare him, I will swear loyalty to your King here and now. You can tell William you secured my allegiance before my death.’
Robert was going to refuse. Constance could tell from the set of his jaw. The thought of Aelric’s death was unbearable to her. Shaking Jeanne’s hand from her arm, she dropped to her knees, ignoring the stiffness in her ankle.
‘You’ve shown them you can be fierce. Now show them you can be merciful,’ she pleaded. ‘There has been so much death today.’
The murmurs grew louder and angrier. Robert’s face was scarlet with fury.
‘Very well,’ he snapped. ‘He lives.’
Aelric was hauled to the foot of the gallows. The bodies were cut down and Brunwulf was dragged forward. Though his chains weighed him down he climbed the ladder unaided and stared straight ahead as the noose was passed over his head. He gave his oath of loyalty as he had promised. He cast a look at his son that spoke of so much affection that tears welled in Constance’s eyes. Then he went, face serene, to his death.
Many watching wept, Constance among them. Aelric remained dry eyed.
‘And now to deal with you. I said you’d live. I made no other promises,’ Robert said to Aelric. He turned to the guards. ‘Secure him to the scaffold. Ten lashes.’
Aelric was bound, hands high, to the frame where his father’s body hung. Constance turned to Jeanne in horror, but her sister’s eyes were blank.
‘Be silent,’ Jeanne hissed, ‘unless you want Robert to suspect the boy means more than you claim.’
The tunic was cut away, leaving Aelric’s back exposed. As the first blow struck his scream of pain tore through the marketplace. He was ready for the second and made no sound, but by the sixth his cries with each blow came as weak, throaty sobs. Constance bunched her fists, digging her nails into her palms. Only later would she notice the half-moons of blood she had raised to the surface. When the tenth stroke was done Robert strolled to where his captive sagged.
‘I have no need to keep you here any longer. Tomorrow you’ll be sent to Chester where Earl Gerbod can find a use for you in the fields or salt works.’
Robert drew a dagger, grabbed hold of Aelric’s left ear, twisting his head back.
‘I’ll leave you something to remember me by.’
He drew the tip from Aelric’s collar to below the ear then turned the blade and smoothly sliced the lobe away. The boy gave a shriek and, as this last cruelty finally broke him, slumped against the scaffold frame in a faint.
* * *
‘You shamed me in public! For that alone I should beat you until you scream!’
Robert’s rage was incandescent. Constance looked to her sister but Jeanne sat, head bowed over her embroidery, and said nothing. She would get no support there.
‘The boy did not deserve death.’
‘Never mind that. What were you doing befriending Saxon filth?’ Robert turned to his wife. ‘Madam, is your sister a wanton?’
‘No, my lord,’ Jeanne answered meekly. ‘Her behaviour is as shocking to me as it is to you.’
Constance’s scalp prickled. If Robert knew the truth about what had passed between her and Aelric his wrath would be too great to withstand. Robert seized hold of Constance by the arm and dragged her roughly to her bed, flinging her on to the straw mattress.
‘You are almost seventeen. It’s time you were married. In the morning I’m sending you to a convent until I can find a husband who can tame you.’
He stormed out, leaving Constance holding her face and trembling with anger.
* * *
She lay on the truckle until it was dark, waiting until the voices in the Great Hall were at their most raucous. She gathered what she needed and wrapped cloth around the end of her walking stick, though it was unlikely to make any noise on the rush floor. She crept from the room and passed through the Great Hall. Robert and his retinue were around the fire pit, listening to the bard singing, and did not notice her leave.
She made her way to the marketplace. There was no light other than from the sliver of moon and the square was empty, everyone having returned home before the curfew. Although a soldier patrolled the boundary of the square, no one stood guard over the figure still bound by the wrists to the gallows. Presumably Robert believed no one would dare approach him after the afternoon’s display of authority.
The iron scent of blood hit her as she neared Aelric, turning her stomach. He was leaning the full weight of his body against the frame. He groaned and turned his head at the sound of Constance’s stick tapping.
‘Constance!’
His voice was a hoarse whisper of surprise. His hair flopped across his face. Constance smoothed it back, unable to tear her eyes from the bloody scab that was his mutilated ear.
She held a flask of wine to his lips and he drank greedily.
‘You’ll get into trouble,’ Aelric said.
‘I won’t be missed.’ Constance hoped it would be true.
She tipped water on to the cloths she’d brought and began to clean the crusted blood from his back. He stiffened his shoulders and gave a sharp intake of breath. She blushed as her fingers traced the contours of his shoulder blades and muscles. She was glad of the darkness.
‘Does it hurt a lot?’ she asked.
‘I can endure the pain,’ Aelric said bitterly. ‘You should have let them hang me.’