“None of this is yours!”
Aelia exclaimed.

Her father had been dead merely a month, yet this usurper had moved in as if he had every right to do so. As if her father had never been lord here.

“You think not, my lady?” Mathieu Fitz Autier took hold of her arm and led her roughly to the window. “Observe. All that you see is mine. You are vanquished, Saxon.”

Aelia turned to slap his arrogant face, but he caught her hand and pressed it against the cool metal hauberk covering his chest. ’Twas a place where no normal heart pulsed, but a cold and cruel one.

Yet he did not strike back. He lowered his head, his face, his lips coming but a breath away from hers.

And then he kissed her. He slid his hands around her waist as he lowered his mouth to her jaw, then her ear and her throat, sipping, tasting Aelia.

Praise for Margo Maguire

The Virtuous Knight

“These are memorable characters whose story plays out against a well-researched backdrop.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

His Lady Fair

“You’ll love this Cinderella story.”

—Rendezvous

Dryden’s Bride

“Exquisitely detailed…an entrancing tale that will enchant and envelop you as love conquers all.”

—Rendezvous

Celtic Bride

“Set against the backdrop of a turbulent era, Margo Maguire’s heart-rending and colorful tale of star-crossed lovers is sure to win readers’ hearts.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

Saxon Lady
Margo Maguire

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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This book is dedicated to Kate Blessing, a reader, musician and scholar. May your last high school years be as full of grace and brilliance as your first.

Contents

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

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter One

Northern England

Early Autumn, 1068

I t was all Lady Aelia could do to keep her men calm before the battle ensued. She walked the perimeter of the palisade and spoke to the archers, bolstering their courage, praising their prowess in battle.

“’Twas not for lack of skill that we’ve survived against the enemy these past months!” she called to them. “You are worthy warriors, you are Ingelwald’s heroes! Fear not the Norman bastard, Fitz Autier, who invades our lands. He is no different from Gui de Reviers, or any of the others whom you killed in battle—he is powerless against our might!”

Aelia hoped it was true. The tales of Mathieu Fitz Autier’s conquests were many and terrifying. He had become a legend in Northumberland with his ruthless ways, sent by King William to conquer where other warriors had failed. No Saxon man, woman or child was spared when Fitz Autier won the day.

Aelia would just have to make certain that he won naught at Ingelwald.

It was nearly dawn, and a hazy mist hovered below. She could sense more than see the activity on the ground beyond Ingelwald’s stone walls. Fitz Autier, no doubt, was marshaling his men into position. But Aelia refused to be unnerved by the enemy she had not yet seen.

Many formidable thanes of Northumberland had come to Ingelwald when their own smaller holdings had fallen, swearing fealty to Wallis, Aelia’s father. Now that Wallis and so many of those Saxon warriors were dead, it fell to Aelia to deliver her people from the Norman peril.

A sudden, hard yank on her arm nearly pulled her off her feet. She whirled ’round and faced the angry countenance of Selwyn, her betrothed. His bearded face lacked the comeliness of a younger man, someone closer to Aelia’s age. And now he lacked even the lands that had swayed Wallis’s decision to give the man his daughter.

Wallis had wanted to ally himself with his closest neighbor, who had a fine estate to the south. And to keep Aelia near him after she married. ’Twas the primary reason he’d given his promise to make her Selwyn’s wife.

“Get down with the women and children,” he rasped angrily, spraying spittle from his darkened lips.

With distaste, Aelia pulled her arm from his viselike grip. “No. These are my father’s archers. They look to me for—”

“Ingelwald is my ward now, as are you and young Osric,” Selwyn asserted, and not for the first time.

“My father made no such provision,” Aelia retorted, her temper flaring, “as you well know.” Wallis had promised her to Selwyn only for the purpose of allying Ingelwald with its powerful neighbor, Selwyn’s holding—which had already fallen to the Normans.

That purpose was moot now, and Aelia would have an end to this distasteful betrothal as soon as her battle for Ingelwald was won.

’Twas unnaturally quiet on the grounds below, the women and children huddled within the walls of her father’s hall, praying for deliverance. It was not Aelia’s intention to join them.

“Wallis never meant for you to dress yourself as some fabled shield-maiden in breeches and tunic,” said Selwyn, “yet you stand here among the men with your quiver on your back, your bow at the ready. What think you, woman? That you are some fatal match for the bastard Fitz Autier?”

Naught would please Aelia more than to be the one whose arrow took the life of that Norman warrior. Yet she would be satisfied if any one of her father’s men accomplished the feat.

“Aelia!”

She and Selwyn turned to see the young red-haired boy who ran toward them. Her brother was merely ten years old, but had the reckless daring and unyielding fortitude of a man twice his age. ’Twas all Aelia could do to keep the lad out of trouble even as she was careful not to crush his formidable spirit.

“’Tis dangerous up here, Osric,” she said.

“Get away with you, boy!” Selwyn demanded.

Wary of unsettling the warriors who manned the battlements, Aelia drew Osric to a quiet corner and spoke softly to him. “Did I not give you a task—an important one?”

“Aye,” he said.

“But you are here with the archers. Were you not instructed to assist the swordsmen with their armor?”

“Aelia, I cannot,” the boy protested, his exuberance nearly palpable. “I am master of Ingelwald and I must—”

“Bah!” Selwyn’s guttural retort sounded behind her, but she ignored him.

“You must return to the horsemen of Father’s fyrd, Osric. They will need every hand to prepare for battle.”

“They are mounted and ready for the dawn,” her brother said. “My place is here with you. I have my bow.”

And he could easily be shot. Aelia searched her mind for a new task to set him upon, something that would not seem trifling to him.

“Christ’s bones, woman!” Selwyn growled. He pushed Aelia aside, grabbed Osric by the scruff of his tunic and shoved him toward the ladder. “Get you gone, boy! This is no place for a brat.”

“Selwyn, cease! He is not your—”

Sunlight broke over the distant horizon and the first onslaught of enemy arrows came with it. Ingelwald’s archers met the attack, arrow for arrow, as the armored horsemen in the courtyard prepared to exit the gates.

Aelia forgot about Osric for the moment as she took her place among the archers and looked down at the Normans who would seize her father’s hall, his lands, her home. Taking aim, she found a target once, twice, then a third time before she noted a tall knight on a massive destrier rallying his men, keeping them in position.

Aelia could not see his face, for he was clad in armor from helm to spur. Even his horse was protected from stray blows by a coat of steel. When she realized that this knight must be Fitz Autier, Aelia raised her bow and took aim.

But he had no vulnerable spot. She closed one eye and targeted him, ever ready should he raise an arm or bend his body in such a way that a vital part was left exposed.

’Twas to no avail. He was a seasoned warrior who knew better than to leave himself open to attack. His movements were powerful and controlled, his horsemanship without flaw. Still, Aelia kept watch on him as he battled the mighty Northumberland thanes.

When his helmet became momentarily dislodged, she saw that the Norman bastard was a comely demon. Even from a distance, Aelia could appreciate the masculine angles of his countenance, the strong lines of his jaw. His dark hair was long for a Norman—it lay in wet strands upon his brow, which was furrowed in anger—or frustration. So handsome was he that Aelia had no doubt many a Norman maid would mourn his passing.

She raised her bow, but her aim was disturbed by a sudden tremor that racked her narrow shoulders, and a strange light-headedness. She had all but forgotten her mother’s portentous words years ago, but when the sight of the Norman warrior caused a burning heat to singe her from blood to bone, she remembered her saying: “The earth will move and your body will quiver with awareness when you first see your one true mate.”

Aelia had always believed her prediction. It had happened to her mother and grandmother, and all the other women in her line, yet… It could not be a Norman—a bastard Norman.

Fitz Autier could not possibly be the man.

Aelia let the arrow fly and an eternity passed as she waited for it to meet its mark. Her breath caught in her throat and her hands clenched tight with anticipation when a sudden rush of blood burst upon the Norman’s face. Aelia’s heart jumped with jubilation, for she had accomplished what every thane in Britain had striven for: death and destruction of the Norman leaders who had come to take their lands.

But no…Fitz Autier was not slain, merely nicked. Blood gushed from the wound in his cheek, though Aelia’s arrow did not protrude from the spot. With disappointment, she realized she must have only grazed him.

While she watched, he turned his gaze up to the battlement where she stood. Their eyes met and held, and in that moment, Aelia realized that Fitz Autier knew it was she who had wounded him.

And she wondered if he felt the same racking tremor that she experienced once again when he looked at her.

The battle raged all morning and far into the afternoon, and Aelia managed to shrug aside the uneasy notion that what she’d felt when she looked upon Fitz Autier was exactly what her mother had predicted.

Her mother, dead after Osric’s difficult birth, could never have known that Aelia would one day find herself face-to-face with this fierce Norman enemy. And that was the only explanation for the odd sensation she felt when she looked at him.

Aelia had no further opportunity to dispatch the Norman bastard. Though Ingelwald warriors managed to hold the gate, too many archers had fallen. Her Northumberland swordsmen outside the walls managed to carry the day. As dusk set in, the Normans retreated to their camp beyond the southern wood to prepare, no doubt, for battle upon the morrow.

Within the stone walls of Ingelwald, torches illuminated the courtyards and the interiors of every building. Half the village was here, within the safety of the walls, but Ingelwald had expanded over the past few generations, and much of it lay outside. Those villagers whose homes were outside the walls had abandoned their cottages and now sheltered inside.

Aelia toiled in her father’s great hall, tending the wounded, bolstering the men of Ingelwald’s fyrd, and the thanes who had come to Wallis when their own lands had been usurped by the French invaders. “Victory is yours!” she called out amid the groans and misery. “Your wounds were well earned, and Ingelwald takes pride in your valor, your sacrifice!”

Those whose injuries were not mortal rallied at Aelia’s words. They stood or pushed themselves up to hear their lady, taking heart in her praise. She stayed among them until all their wounds were bound, and food was distributed, then left the hall to make her rounds in the enclosure, visiting the families who had come from the village for shelter and protection.

Food stores were low, but there was fresh water from the well behind the great hall. If tomorrow’s battle went as Aelia planned, the Normans would be routed, and life at Ingelwald would return to normal.

Aelia made her way to the well, where she drew water and washed the grime of battle from her hands and face.

She had not seen Selwyn among the thanes in the hall, nor was he on the battlements. Though Aelia had no desire to wed the man, she wanted to pay him her compliments, for he had fought well for Ingelwald, leading the battle outside the stone walls of her father’s holding.

She took a long draught of clean, clear water and heard her name called by one of Osric’s young chums. A moment later, the lad reached her side. “Osric is gone!”

She wiped the water from her face. “What were his orders?”

“Modig told us to climb to the top of the storehouse and call the alarm if we saw any Normans trying to breach the wall.”

“And Osric left his post?”

“Aye, but—”

“When you find him, tell him he’ll answer to me,” Aelia said, though she knew that Osric had no fear of her. He was a headstrong lad, overindulged by their father in his grief these last two years, since the death of their elder brother, Godwin. Still, Osric was aware that these were unusual times, and that his actions would be severely scrutinized.

“No! He’s gone, my lady! Outside the wall!”

Aelia’s heart dropped to her toes. “Outside? What do you mean, Grendel? Where?”

“He went through the tunnel under the east wall…said he would kill the bastard, Fitz Autier, himself!”

Aelia steadied herself against the trunk of the sapling oak in whose branches Osric and his friends had spent so many carefree hours. There had been so much death of late. She’d lost Godwin, and less than two months ago, her father. She could not lose Osric, too.

“What did he tell you?” She tamped down her panic and moved away from the well and the peaceful, familiar surroundings. “What plan did he have?”

“None beyond wanting to kill Fitz Autier as he slept. Osric said Selwyn treated him like a helpless bairn, but he would show that old man.”

Aelia should have known Osric would react thus. He took much of what was said as a personal challenge. And even if Selwyn had given Osric a worthy task, her brother must have felt insulted to be excluded from the battle.

She had to raise the alarm and assemble a company of men to go to Osric’s rescue. ’Twould mean going to battle in the dark, in territory that was unfamiliar to many of the Saxon warriors who had come from distant lands. Such a conflict could very well prove disastrous.

Mayhap there was a better way.

Sending Grendel to the armory to sup with the men, Aelia made her way to the east wall, where a narrow tunnel had been dug a generation before. There was no point in sending a battalion of men into the Norman camp when one small warrior could accomplish the task, at far less risk.

Aelia knew the territory well. She’d been raised in these lands, had ridden her steed there and hunted with her father and Godwin.

She would try to catch Osric before he had a chance to get into the Norman camp. If he somehow managed to elude her, Aelia would decide upon another likely course.

The ferocity of Ingelwald’s defense came as no surprise to Mathieu Fitz Autier. That they would send a child assassin was either ridiculously stupid or colossally brilliant. The boy claimed to be Wallis’s heir, and if it were true, he would make a fine hostage.

But the matter could wait until the morrow. His men were battle-weary and the boy was safely gagged and tied for the night. If Wallis wanted him back, he could surrender at daybreak when all parties were rested. Then Mathieu would take the Saxon lord prisoner, along with his sons and the daughter, Lady Aelia.

King William’s orders had been clear. Mathieu was to personally escort his Saxon prisoners to London, where they would be publicly displayed and executed.

All was quiet in the encampment. Mathieu did not believe Wallis would attempt an attack in the dark, but he had posted guards to give early warning in such an event. Carrying a torch, he walked among the small canvas shelters that housed many of his soldiers, and headed toward his own tent. It was a large dwelling, serving not only as his sleeping quarters, but as the place where he and his commanders met to strategize, planning their movements and battles.

He ducked under the flap and pulled it closed after him, then walked to the center of the tent. Tugging his tunic over his head, he poured water into a basin and tended his own wounds. For the first time, he allowed his thoughts to touch upon the archer whose arrow had sliced so close to his cheekbone.

It had been a maiden.

Even from a distance, with golden hair tinged red in the sunlight, she was a delicate beauty who’d stood out among the rough soldiers on the battlements. An odd prescience had come over him when he’d first seen her, taking hold of him like an iron fist squeezing his ribs and the bones of his spine. The ground had seemed to shiver under his feet. The sensation had disoriented him sufficiently to put him at risk, and he’d only come to his senses when his helm had been torn from his head.

A moment later, when the arrow grazed him, he’d looked up and caught her gaze. It was as if…

No, he was no young swain easily infatuated by a comely face. Besides, this was a Saxon woman, one who would kill him if given the opportunity. She had nearly succeeded this morn.

Mathieu washed the wound in his cheek. It likely needed sewing, but he would not disturb Sir Auvrai now to tend him. Mathieu stretched his shoulders and back and took note of several new bruises. ’Twas the price of war: no more, no less. But this time, when William’s enemy was routed, he would be master of the spoils.

Victory here assured Mathieu of the land he’d craved for years, and marriage to the most beautiful woman in all of Normandy—Lady Clarise, daughter of Lord Simon de Vilot.

Mathieu had served William for years. As the bastard son of a noble father, he had fewer rights than his legitimate half brothers, and no possessions beyond his horse and his armor. Yet he’d earned the respect and affection of his liege lord, who was now king of England. Soon, Mathieu would collect his reward. As overlord of Ingelwald and all its neighboring lands, and as son-in-law of Simon de Vilot, Mathieu would be no less than his brothers’ equal.

No, he would surpass them.

Aelia derided these ignorant Normans for making camp right beside the river. Did they not know that the rushing water masked whatever sounds an intruder might make as she slipped unseen into their midst? There was clutter here, too, making it easy for her to hide as she watched the men bed down for the night.

Silently, Aelia slipped under a discarded tarpaulin, keeping one corner lifted in order to see out from beneath it. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. With deliberate effort, she slowed her breathing and calmed her nerves as she settled in to wait. She had not seen Osric in the flickering torchlight, but all was quiet in the camp. If her brother had killed Fitz Autier, ’twould not be so, unless the Norman’s dead carcass remained undiscovered.

Where would he be?

A moment later, Fitz Autier walked into sight and that odd, shivery feeling came over Aelia once again. This time she was sure it must be fear for Osric that caused the strange sensations. The bastard strode through his camp, passing right in front of her. This Norman whose reputation had preceded him to Ingelwald was just a man, not some warrior god with powers beyond those of any mortal.

Yet his physical stature was greater than any Saxon she’d ever known. Without his armor, his chest was a wall of granite and his arms thick with muscle. His hands worked at the buckles and laces of his tunic and chausses as he walked, and Aelia wished he would desist. Surely he would not disrobe before reaching his shelter, not when the night was so chilly. She had no interest in seeing his flesh bared.

He finally ducked into his tent, and Aelia would have made a run toward it, but two sentries came close, taking away her moment of opportunity. Was Osric waiting for Fitz Autier inside that tent? Would he be able to kill the Norman without help?

Osric thought much of himself, and though he knew how to handle a knife, he was no match for a full-grown man—especially not one like Fitz Autier, who was as likely to spit a young Saxon lad on his sword as he was to take him hostage.

Aelia had to move. She had to get Osric out of there before he found himself on the wrong side of the blade.

Though anxious to leave her hiding place, she had no choice but to wait for the sentries to pass out of sight. She forced herself to remain still and watch for activity within the camp, half expecting Osric to emerge stealthily from the Norman’s tent with his bloodied knife in his hand.

Waiting for the best possible moment to move, worrying all the while, she observed the guards on the perimeter of the camp, wondering whether or not Osric was inside Fitz Autier’s tent.

If he was not, then Aelia herself would accomplish what her brother had set out to do. Osric’s idea had been a good one, though ’twas not suitable for a young boy to carry out.

When the guards and their torches were out of sight, Aelia slid quietly from the tarp and crawled to the Norman’s tent. She lay perfectly still, listening intently for sounds within. But all was silent. She heard naught.

Was Osric inside, awaiting the perfect moment?

The flap was loose and Aelia slipped under it, disturbing the canvas as little as possible.

Once inside, she held still for another moment to allow her eyes to adjust to the gloom. Campfires burned outside, casting a small amount of light through the fabric walls. Aelia’s eyes were drawn to the figure who lay upon a fur pelt.

He was unmoving, but not dead. And Osric was not here. Aelia heard the Norman’s breathing, deep and even in sleep. She drew her knife from its sheath at her waist and crept toward him, past the center pole, past the suit of armor that lay in an orderly arrangement near the far wall.

When she was close enough to see the stubble of dark whiskers that grew upon his jaw, she raised her arm and struck.

Chapter Two

M athieu moved with a speed that belied his size, grabbed the woman’s wrist and pinned her beneath him. ’Twas ironic that the very wound she’d inflicted upon him earlier in the day had throbbed sufficiently to keep him from sleep, making him aware of her the moment she crawled into his tent.

“Lady Aelia, I presume.”

“Get off me, you…you Norman swine!”

“I see your aim is better than your manners. Fortunately, your skill is unmatched by your size, or I might have had something to worry about.”

She pushed and squirmed under him, but Mathieu did not yield. “Do you Saxons plan to assault me one by one until I’ve beaten every last one of you?”

“One by one?” she gasped. “My brother…he is here?”

’Twas some time since he’d had a woman under him, but though he was aroused by her soft feminine flesh, Mathieu was no rapist. He was disgusted by his own father’s preferred technique. Instead, he favored an enthusiastic partner rather than a combative or submissive one. “Do you mean the red-haired maggot who tried to stick me with his puny sword?” Mathieu quipped. “If Wallis is reduced to sending children to vanquish his enemy, then I’ve lost all respect for the man.”

“My f-father is dead.”

Her words surprised him. Who, then, had led Ingelwald’s defense? Wallis’s elder son? “Then ’tis Godwin who rules Ingelwald?”

Lady Aelia did not answer, but renewed her efforts to free herself. She jabbed her knee forward, hitting Mathieu ruthlessly between the legs. He groaned and rolled to the side, still holding her wrists in his fists.

“You have already done sufficient damage to me, demoiselle,” he said through gritted teeth as she continued to kick and flail against him. “Cease. You are going nowhere.” He lay across her, pinning her legs as well as her hands, and wondered how she’d managed to slip past the sentries who patrolled the boundaries of the camp. He had to concede that her small size had served her well in this instance.

“Where is my brother?”

“Stowed safely away,” he said roughly. His face was so close to hers that he could see a few light freckles dancing over her smooth, flawless skin. Her bared teeth were white and evenly spaced, her lips full and pink and slightly parted. He could almost taste them.

As appealing as that would be, he resisted the urge. “Should my men be watching for Godwin, too?”

“Release me!”

That was something Mathieu had no intention of doing. At least, not until she was properly restrained. He made another quick move and turned the wench facedown on the pelt that made up his bed. Placing his knee in the center of her back, he shoved her long blond plait aside and held her hands tightly behind her with one fist. With his free hand, he reached for a length of rope to bind her, then turned her again, to tie her hands in front.

He was not a cruel man. His ruthless reputation had been exaggerated, but it had served his purpose as he battled for the king. If only Wallis had heeded what he’d heard of Fitz Autier, the Saxon lord would still be in possession of his holding. Instead, he had rebelled against William’s authority, refusing to accept him as king. William had had no choice but to send an army to quell the rebellion.

When the woman was securely tied, Mathieu allowed her to sit up and face him. “Will Godwin negotiate for your release?”

She pressed her lips tightly together and looked away, refusing to answer. But Mathieu saw her throat move convulsively, and noted a slight tremor in her mouth. She was not merely being obstinate. If he was not mistaken, ’twas raw grief that made her tremble.

Her brother was dead.

He ignored the twinge of sympathy that arose from some place deep within him. ’Twas the way of war. Soldiers as well as innocents lost their lives, especially when those innocents did not surrender peacefully to the conquering armies. Mathieu had made warfare his business, and he was not in it to save anyone—particularly not this Saxon wench who stood between him and his deepest wishes.

Mathieu rose to his feet and placed the woman’s knife on top of his hauberk as he considered what to do with her. At first he thought of taking her to the supply wagon and leaving her there with her brother, but decided against it. Better to keep them separated.

“Who is in charge at Ingelwald?” he asked.

She raised her chin and refused to meet his eye.

“It does not matter.” He tossed a fur pelt down to the floor beside the one where the Saxon woman sat. “Tomorrow morn, when you arrive at Ingelwald gate, trussed up and draped over my horse’s rump, someone there will deal with me.”

“Where is my brother?” she snapped.

Mathieu laughed. “You are in no position to demand answers, demoiselle.”

“He is just a child—send him home.”

Mathieu reached for the knife. “You do not yet understand, Lady Aelia. The boy no longer has a home. Nor do you.”

She let out a huff of breath as if he’d struck her. If there had been any compassion in him, he might have spared some of it for this proud woman who’d braved the dark forest paths, then a legion of enemy soldiers, to rescue her young brother. If Mathieu were of a baser nature, he would allow her beauty and her womanly curves to entice him.

But he had one purpose here. He was to win Ingelwald for William, who in turn would grant it back to him as the king’s trusted vassal. ’Twas a rich holding, and a far greater reward than either of his brothers had achieved. He had already been named baron of Ingelwald by King William.

He reached for a length of rope and wrapped it twice ’round the Saxon woman’s waist, tying it behind her. Then he took the loose ends, tied them to one of his own wrists and lay down upon the extra pelt.

Aelia twisted her body to take hold of the rope that bound her to him, and tried to pull free. “If you think I’m going to lie here—”

“I am weary, wench,” he growled as she continued to struggle. She kicked him and tried to beat him with her fists, but Mathieu shoved her to the floor once again and took hold of her hair at the nape of her neck, where the long plait of gold-red began. He leaned down and spoke softly in her ear. “I can call to my men, and if you prefer their company to mine, you can pass the night with them.”

“You would do such a thing, Norman!” she cried, wriggling to get away. “Set an innocent woman—”

“Innocent?” He turned her and pulled her face close to his. “This bloody gash in my cheek had naught to do with innocence. The arrows that rained down upon my soldiers were not meant as goodwill tokens, demoiselle. Be grateful that I am more civilized than you, and be still. Sleep or not, but rest assured that your continued good health and that of your bratling brother will depend upon your conduct tonight!”

Aelia could see no way out. Fitz Autier had turned away from her and settled down to sleep, but she could not rest.

Nor could she escape.

One tug on the rope that bound her would rouse him from slumber, and he was even more formidable at close quarters. ’Twas appalling to her to admit it, but she was afraid to cross him.

She’d thought him comely from a distance, but now that she could see his features and his massive chest and arms, bared for sleep, she knew that there was much more to Fitz Autier than a handsome face. His nose bore a slight bump at its bridge, indicating that it had once been broken. A narrow scar marred his forehead, cutting through his thick dark brow. And from this day forward, he would always bear a reminder of her arrow upon his cheek.

Would that it had been a true shot! Then she would not be in this predicament.

She tried to loosen the bindings on her wrists, but could not. The knots he’d tied at her back were unreachable, and she was unable to twist them to the front, where she could see them and work on them.

The walls of the tent were staked firmly to the ground, so Aelia could not slip underneath, even if she were to manage to free herself. She glanced ’round the shadowy interior of the tent, looking for anything she might be able to use as a weapon, or to cut herself free. Of course, Fitz Autier had placed her knife upon his far side, and she could not reach it without climbing over him.

An unlit lamp hung from the center pole, and a small wooden trunk stood fast against the far canvas wall, a wooden carving of a wolf lying on top. Besides the Norman’s armor and his discarded tunic, hauberk and boots, there was nothing else. No way to kill him, and no way to escape.

Even if she could somehow slip past him to get out, she did not know Osric’s location. If she left, she would have to search every inch of the camp for him, and if she failed to find him and take him back to Ingelwald, Aelia had no doubt the Norman would make good his threat.

Osric would be killed.

Aelia sighed in frustration and lay down uneasily behind Fitz Autier, watching him breathe deeply and regularly in sleep. He was remarkably relaxed for a man who lay beside a captive bent upon destroying him.

He was uncovered, yet his body radiated heat. The thick muscles of his shoulders rippled with every breath, and Aelia swallowed uneasily as she took note of his size and remembered the strength of his grip on her wrists.

He could crush Osric—or even her—between his big hands.

Aelia could not relax. She had never slept beside a man before, and was not about to start with a Norman, particularly this bastard. She pushed herself as far as possible from him, inadvertently tugging the rope and waking him.

She cursed his quick reflexes as one of his hands shot out and grabbed her. He pulled her inexorably toward him and quickly enveloped her in his arms.

“By all that’s holy, wench, ’tis the last time I’ll tell you to settle yourself, else I’ll send you to the guards. Lie down!”

Aelia knew she would be worse than a fool if she tried to fight him. ’Twas not just her own life at risk, but Osric’s, too.

She lay back on the fur pelt beside him, but he allowed her no space. He stayed facing her, and she was caught between his broad chest and the taut canvas wall.

As his breathing quieted, Aelia turned her thoughts from the brawny Norman and considered the coming morn. She had to think what to do when she was offered in exchange for Ingelwald.

Selwyn would not care as much about her safe return as he would about keeping Ingelwald for himself. Aelia had had to remind him far too many times since her father’s death that the holding was Osric’s birthright. King Harold had promised that Wallis and his heirs would continue as earls of eastern Northumberland. With her brother, Godwin, gone these past two years, the honor fell to Osric. Certainly not to Selwyn, whose stature was insignificant in the English hierarchy.

Aelia eased herself down beside Fitz Autier and shivered, whether with cold or nerves, she did not know. But seeming of its own accord, her body inched closer to his warmth, and he threw one arm over her waist. The quiet sound of his breathing relaxed her, and she found her eyelids drooping. Her thoughts became disjointed.

Ingelwald’s warriors would battle the Normans to the death. Selwyn would not yield until the walls were breached and every man, woman and child was killed.

But what if Selwyn could be eliminated first? ’Twas possible her father’s huscurls would trade her and Osric for peaceful entry.

How many lives would be spared if Ingelwald accepted the Norman’s terms?

Ingelwald’s warriors were vastly outnumbered by these Normans, whose stores of armor and weapons—and food—seemed unending. The supplies at home were growing scarce. There were only so many arrows left, and even fewer bags of grain until the fields were harvested. Aelia did not know how long her people could hold out before starvation, if not slaughter, vanquished them.

Aelia saw the face of her brother’s young friend, Grendel, before her eyes, and those of his sisters and his parents. There were countless others whose lives were precious to her. There was Beorn the Carpenter, who built lyres and harps, and all manner of other musical instruments. And Erlina, daft as she was, who made potions and poultices for any who had need of them. If Ingelwald surrendered, would the Normans allow her people to live in peace, working their land as they’d done for generations?

’Twas a disturbing question.

Fitz Autier tightened his grip on her, as though he had heard her painful thoughts and wanted to give comfort. He pulled her close, sliding one thick knee between her soft thighs. Afraid of waking him, she did not pull away, but held her breath while his hand caressed her back, sliding down across her buttocks.

Aelia’s eyes drifted closed and she did not resist when he increased their intimate contact. She did not have the energy to fight him, and the warmth of his body drew her to him, as did the sense of being gathered into a cocoon of security. It had been so long since Aelia had felt safe. She’d lost her brother, then her father, in skirmishes against the bastard king’s armies. Now she had to contend with Selwyn, who wanted to take Ingelwald from Osric. It sometimes felt as though the strife would never end.

Fitz Autier made a soft sound in his sleep and changed position slightly. Though he might be indifferent to what he was doing, Aelia could feel her pulse pounding in every sensitive part of her body. And when his leg slid even higher, she could not breathe.

She was as fatigued as she’d ever been in her life, yet the pressure of his thigh made it impossible to sleep. Her sense of security and repose was soon replaced by a strange tension and a pleasure so acute she had to press her mouth closed to keep from sighing aloud. Inadvertently, she clasped her legs tightly ’round his and shifted slightly, finding the most responsive part of her body and moving against him.

She was afraid of waking him, yet she could not make herself stop. Every nerve within her seemed centered in that one extraordinary place, and when the urgent sensations flooded together and peaked, Aelia thought her heart would burst from her chest. She closed her eyes and let the strange euphoria wash over her, feeling exquisitely sensitive to everything around her.

She felt Fitz Autier’s breath in her hair, heard his heartbeat, felt the dark crisp curls of his chest against her cheek. He smelled like a freshly washed male, his skin warm and taut against hers, and once again Aelia felt the shuddering awareness she’d experienced when she’d first seen him on the ground beneath Ingelwald’s battlements.

But he was her enemy!

These odd sensations had naught to do with the predictions her mother had made so many years ago, when Edward was king and William merely a troublesome Frenchman. Her mother had never known of the disasters to come, of the terrible toll the Normans would take from Ingelwald. She had never meant that a Norman would be Aelia’s one true mate, her body recognizing him even as she did her best to kill him.

’Twas ridiculous.

Chapter Three

M athieu never dreamed at night, but decided he might enjoy the practice if all his dreams were as arousing as the one he’d just had. No doubt his proximity to the Saxon woman through the night had been responsible for it. He’d awakened in a tangle of soft arms and legs, and the scent of feminine arousal.

Whatever he’d dreamed had been merely a trick his mind played upon him. If she’d been aroused at all, ’twas with thoughts of murder, nothing more.

The Saxon wench still slept, looking surprisingly innocent. But Mathieu would take no chances with her. There was no doubt she would kill him as soon as look at him.

Without waking her, he reached for her knife and sliced through the rope that bound her to him. Her lashes fluttered, but she did not awaken as he left the pallet they’d shared.

Events could not have worked out better. For Lady Aelia to have fallen so conveniently into his hands was a gift from God. ’Twas obvious the Saxons could not go to battle when their lady’s life was at stake. Ingelwald would belong to King William before the morning sun cleared the trees east of the castle walls.

In good spirits, Mathieu tore off the braies in which he’d slept. Reaching into his trunk for fresh garments, he considered how best to approach Ingelwald. A full-blown battle was likely to ensue if he rode there with his army behind him. No one would notice that he carried Lady Aelia. Ingelwald’s archers were certain to be ready, just as they had been yestermorn.

Perhaps ’twould be best to ride in with merely a herald and a small battalion at his flanks.

Or he could tie the wench to a horse and send her first into the clearing so that—

A sharp intake of breath behind him made him turn to the bed.

“How dare you!” she sputtered.

He stood unabashedly naked before her, but her presumption angered him. ’Twas his tent, and she was the interloper. “You forget, demoiselle, that you were not invited here.”

“Common decency—”

“Would have prevented you from entering my tent with homicidal purpose.”

With color flashing in her cheeks, she turned abruptly away, presenting him with her back. Her movements were awkward, hampered by the ropes that still bound her. ’Twas difficult to believe this was the same soft woman who’d cuddled close to him for warmth during the night. This morn, she was all hard angles and planes, her obstinacy demonstrated by her rigid posture.

Mathieu stepped into his braies and belted the garment at his waist. Then he sat on his trunk and pulled on his chausses, keeping one eye on the Saxon.

“I would see my brother, Norman.”

Mathieu had no intention of uniting her with the boy, not until it suited his own purpose. He continued dressing, sliding his arms into the sleeves of a clean tunic, then pulling it over his head. When he picked up his hauberk, the woman turned to him once again.

In the early morning light he could see that her eyes were green, and they flashed with anger. Or desperation. Mathieu rubbed the back of his neck to dispel the odd feeling that arose when he looked at her, and watched her push herself to her knees.

“Set me free and I will go to Selwyn.”

“You insult my intelligence, demoiselle.” Mathieu shoved her knife through his belt and picked up his sword. He turned to the tent flap and pushed it open.

“I can persuade him to surrender to you.”

“Who is Selwyn?”

“He is my betrothed…. He will have taken command of Ingelwald in my absence.”

“And why would you want to surrender Ingelwald to me now?”

She dropped her gaze to the floor. “My people… I would see no more of them killed for my sake,” she said as he left the tent.

Norman soldiers greeted their lord as he passed, and it sounded as if Fitz Autier gave them their orders in return. Aelia was grateful to Father Ambrosius for teaching her the Normans’ language, though she did not hear anything useful now.

She stood up and followed their leader outside, only to be stopped by a wall of chain mail. She lost her balance, but the burly knight on guard outside Fitz Autier’s tent grabbed her arm and kept her from falling. His face was hard and unmoving, his action not one of kindness, but of expedience.

He was taller than Fitz Autier, and broader, too, though his hair was so blond it was nearly white. His was a craggy face, one that might have been frightening with its scars and one empty eye socket, but Aelia refused to be intimidated by him.

He released her and stepped aside, allowing a smaller warrior to push past her, balancing several items in his arms. He set everything down in Fitz Autier’s tent, then gathered up his leader’s armor and started to leave.

“Food and drink,” he said.

“I am neither hungry nor thirsty,” she replied defiantly, wishing she could cross her arms over her chest to punctuate her words. But alas, her wrists were still tied. “I have need of…” She glanced toward the perimeter of the camp and the woods beyond it. “…of a moment’s privacy.”

The big, blond knight pushed her back into the tent as the young man left. “You’re not leaving. Baron Fitz Autier sent all you will need.”

The man lowered the tent flap behind her, and Aelia saw that a large metal pot had been left for her, along with a bowl of water, a thick slice of bread and a cup of ale. Awkwardly, she picked up the pot in her bound hands, and with a cry of frustration, heaved it against the wall of the tent, resulting in a loud clang and a burst of male laughter outside.

The heat of humiliation burned her cheeks, along with the awareness that her situation would likely become worse as the morning progressed.

Her hands were still tied and Aelia would damn her own soul before asking any of these Normans to cut her loose. She pulled against the ropes, twisting her hands every possible way to free them. Then she tried her teeth.

“You scorn our meager rations, demoiselle?”

Aelia’s head jerked up at Fitz Autier’s voice and she met his eyes, the same cool blue of the cloudless sky.

He’d looked formidable without clothes. Just the thought of his densely muscled body, and the impressive manhood he’d so flagrantly displayed, made her mouth go dry. But in his armor, he was an overwhelming adversary.

Aelia decided she could be just as daunting. She was an earl’s daughter, after all. In her father’s house, she had entertained all manner of royalty, including kings and queens. One Norman knight was barely worth her notice.

She lifted her tied hands, holding them out in front of her. “’Tis full light. Surely you do not fear my escape now, not with all your men on guard ’round this tent.”

He pulled her own knife from his belt and slid the blade between her hands.

Aelia felt his gaze upon her face, but she did not look up. She kept her eyes trained on the ropes that bound her. In one quick slice she was free, but guarded as she was, she could do naught with her freedom.

Fitz Autier stepped away from her and toyed with her knife before putting it back through his belt. He was taunting her, demonstrating which of them had the power here.

“Will I see my brother this morning?”

He pushed the flap open behind him, and Osric fell into the tent. Her brother lay gagged, with his hands bound behind him. A length of rope was looped around his neck like the lead on a goat.

Aelia ran to the boy, dropping to her knees beside him. She started to slip the rope from his neck, but Fitz Autier’s boot came down upon the loose end before she could free Osric.

“You are a barbarian!” she cried, looking up at him. “He is just a child!”

Fitz Autier’s face hardened. “This child nearly severed one of my men’s fingers with his teeth! He kicked Raoul de Moreton in the ballocks so hard the man will be worthless if we battle today! Furthermore—”

“He merely defended himself!” she protested. When she pulled off his gag, Osric let loose a stream of Saxon curses. “Let me untie him!”

Fitz Autier drew his sword. “Do so at your own peril, demoiselle.”

The Norman was deadly serious. Aelia smoothed Osric’s bright, coppery hair away from his dirty face and shushed him. ’Twas important to remain calm, never allowing the Norman to see how he’d rattled them.

“Aelia,” Osric said in their own tongue. “When I say the word, you feint to the side and I’ll grab—”

“Do not be an idiot,” she replied. “First of all, he could very well understand our language. Secondly, you are tied! We have no chance against them. They are armed, we are not. There are so many of them, and we are only two. We’ll have to let them trade us for peace at Ingelwald.”

Osric rolled to his side and pushed himself up. “Never! Ingelwald belongs to us! We—”

“Hush before you get us killed,” she said, blocking her little brother from any action the Norman might take.

She had known Osric would never yield to his captors. He was not an easy child, even in the best of circumstances. Their father and older brother had indulged him unrelentingly, spoiling him, making him feel as privileged as a king. He was a bright lad, but young. And headstrong. She could just imagine the havoc he’d wreaked upon the Norman camp during the night.

“Make ready to ride, wench,” Fitz Autier said. “The boy will wait outside.”

Mathieu took the Saxon boy by the scruff of his neck and hauled him away from his sister. “You will ride with Sir Auvrai d’Evreux,” he said, aware that the boy spoke French.

The little fiend turned suddenly and kicked Mathieu’s shin, then fled. Since Mathieu’s leg was shielded, no damage was done, but he did not follow. He allowed Osric to run all the way to the bordering woods, where two sentries caught him and carried him back into camp. They dropped him unceremoniously at Mathieu’s feet, where the child spat out the only Saxon words Mathieu had learned, and they were not fit for a child’s tongue.

“Are all Saxons as badly behaved as you, boy?” he asked, without expecting an answer.

He just wanted to get this business over—bargaining for the woman’s and her brother’s lives for the peaceful surrender of Ingelwald. He turned to Auvrai, the tall, blond warrior who was his second-in-command. “I’ll carry Lady Aelia. You take the boy. I want ten men on each of our flanks and the rest of…”

All activity and every conversation going on around Mathieu and Auvrai suddenly ceased. Mathieu looked in the direction of his men’s gazes and saw that Aelia had moved outside.

She might have been wearing a gown of the finest silk, with a circlet of gold upon her brow, yet her garments were merely a common tunic and breeches. She’d straightened those poor clothes and done something to her hair. ’Twas now a glorious mass of golden curls, cascading across her shoulders and down her back. She’d washed her face, and Mathieu could appreciate every feminine feature, from her delicately arched brows to the hint of a cleft in her chin.

Yet he refused to be moved by her beauty. She was his hostage, and her life would be forfeit if Selwyn refused to negotiate. He had no sympathy for her position.

With utter poise, Lady Aelia approached him, stopping at the place where Osric lay curled on his side. “I am ready, Norman,” she said, reaching down to help her brother to his feet. She spoke softly to the lad in their Saxon tongue, then looked unflinchingly at Mathieu, with eyes the clear green of England’s fertile fields.

Mathieu clenched his jaw and turned away, barely noticing the squire who led his horse into camp. He would not be duped by her quiescent manner, or swayed by her comely form. There were far more beautiful women in Normandy, one of whom would become his bride as soon as he returned to London.

Mathieu mounted his horse and Auvrai lifted Lady Aelia up to the saddle in front of him. She felt small and insignificant for all her apparent composure, and he felt her tremble slightly against his armor.

She had good reason to be nervous. Unless Selwyn was strongly motivated to save Aelia’s life, the man would have no reason to negotiate at the cost of losing Ingelwald for himself. As the warrior chosen to wed Wallis’s daughter, Selwyn had become Ingelwald’s legitimate leader. Would the Saxon care more about losing Aelia and her intractable brother, or giving up Wallis’s rich holding in what was certain to be another bloody battle?

Without a doubt, Aelia was a desirable woman. Having spent the night dreaming of her sensual awakening, then observing the noble manner in which she’d approached him just now, Mathieu could not imagine a man in all of England who would not want her.

But Mathieu did not know Selwyn, nor did he know how matters stood between him and the lady.

He pulled down his visor and waited for Auvrai to mount his horse and situate Osric in front of him. A moment later, the rest of the company was ready, and Mathieu led the throng away from camp.

He considered what to do if Selwyn refused to negotiate. There were several trees just outside Ingelwald’s walls. Mathieu had noticed one in particular, with a thick, horizontal branch suitable for hanging. If Selwyn did not surrender, Mathieu would set these two Saxons upon one horse, tie ropes ’round their necks and send the horse a-galloping. The two prisoners would strain and choke as they hung by their necks, and their legs would jerk and quiver as all of Ingelwald witnessed their deaths.

Mathieu took a deep breath and inhaled Aelia’s scent. He felt her softness against him and hardened his thoughts against any unwelcome mercy.

She was his prisoner, nothing more. And there was no excuse for his thoughts to keep returning to his arousing dream, or to wonder if he could make those sighs of pleasure that he’d imagined real. Better to think of Lady Aelia with a stout rope around her pretty neck.

Or not think of her at all.

Mathieu and Auvrai took the main path, while the men who flanked them rode through the sparse woods. Mathieu had decided to approach Ingelwald with only a few men visible. The rest would remain beyond the line of trees near the Saxon holding, awaiting the results of the parley that would take place with Selwyn. He had already instructed the herald, Gilbert de Bosc, on what was to be said, and that he wanted the Saxon’s words translated.

“Will you allow me to speak to Selwyn?” his captive asked.

“I am no fool, Lady Aelia. Either he agrees or he does not. I am prepared for either decision.”

She took a shuddering breath. “If he agrees, then we will become your slaves. If he refuses, then you must execute me. And Osric.”

Chapter Four

’T was still early when they reached the walls of Aelia’s home. The morning was cold and clear, all the better for Selwyn and the others to observe her sitting astride the Norman’s massive steed. To bear witness to her defeat.

Aelia swallowed reflexively. A light breeze ruffled her hair and her muscles tightened in spite of her resolve to appear serene. Her body was so tense with her hatred for this Norman scoundrel, she felt her bones might break if she moved even slightly.

The Norman herald rode forth and blew his horn. Then he called out to those who waited beyond the walls. “Hear ye, men of Ingelwald!”

Aelia clasped her hands into fists in her lap and gazed up at the high battlements. Without a weapon, and with no hope of escape, she could do naught but wait upon Selwyn’s pleasure. Would he trade Ingelwald for her life?

Aelia felt Fitz Autier’s breath in her hair, his powerful arms like steel bands around her. His armored thighs bracketed her hips, making her feel inadequate and small. Fitz Autier was ready for battle, but what about her? She and Osric were unprotected. If Selwyn commanded the archers to fire upon them, Aelia and her brother could easily be wounded or killed.

She glanced over at Osric, who was struggling against the Norman knight who held him fast, and felt an unrelenting urge to grab him and run.

’Twas impossible. They were doomed, unless some practical plan suddenly came into her head.

But she’d been over it a hundred times. Selwyn would never give up Ingelwald for her. If he could win this battle against the Normans, her father’s rich holding would belong to him. The Normans would kill her and Osric, and Selwyn would have no rival for possession of the estate.

Aelia could not see any way for her to win.

“Selwyn will not barter for me.”

Fitz Autier said naught, but Aelia felt his breath leave him. Whether ’twas in anger or frustration, she did not know. He must have hoped he could engage in a peaceful exchange—her life for Ingelwald. Now he would have to win it in battle.

And execute her on principle.

“After my father died, I told Selwyn I would not wed him. He has no claim to Ingelwald unless I am dead.”

The Norman tightened his grip on the reins and turned his horse, signaling Sir Auvrai to follow. “You might have mentioned this before now, demoiselle.” His tone was gruff, ill-tempered.

She took a deep, quavering breath and held on to the horse’s mane. “I thought—”

Aelia heard the first arrow hit Fitz Autier’s armor, but he seemed to suffer no damage. He retreated so fast she had difficulty seeing whether the other knight followed him to the safety of the trees. They were under attack, and Aelia felt the Norman lean over her to protect her from the volley of arrows that rained down from her father’s high walls.

She did not understand. Why didn’t he just throw her into the line of fire and be done with her?

Fitz Autier’s mounted regiments advanced, but the soldiers made way for their leader as he rode through their ranks, retreating well behind the line of battle.

He beckoned two of his foot soldiers. “Take this woman and her vexing brother back to camp!” She felt his hands encircle her arms and he swung her to the ground. “Tie them securely, and don’t take your eyes off them.” He lowered his visor and turned toward Ingelwald as Sir Auvrai dropped Osric unceremoniously beside her.

Aelia watched the two Normans turn to the battle. Neither one looked back.

The sounds of battle horns and clashing swords raged in Aelia’s ears. She barely noticed her hands being bound by the Norman guards, nor did she heed Osric’s torrent of curses and complaints when they were tied together with a sturdy rope. She heard men’s angry voices in the distance, and the clash of steel upon steel. The unmistakable tones of taut bowstrings and loosed arrows filled her ears.

One of the guards gave her a shove and they started on the path toward the Norman camp. There was a better route, but Aelia would not show it to them. There might come a time when she and Osric would need to use it, and ’twould not do to have the Normans too familiar with the terrain.

Ingelwald would fall to Fitz Autier. The absolute certainty of it shook Aelia, and she stumbled blindly as they trod across the uneven ground in the woods. Her life as she’d known it was over, but perhaps her people would go on as before. They were no threat to these French bastards. This war was between Saxon landholders and the Norman encroachers, Frenchmen who would take all that the Saxon lords had built, and steal it for their own.

The people of Ingelwald would go back to their cottages and fields, but Aelia dreaded to think what would happen to her and to Osric. Were they to be sold as slaves to the Scots who raided Ingelwald lands when they had need of cattle and laborers? Mayhap Fitz Autier would send them back to Normandy, to face a future of servitude there.

She shuddered at the thought that they might yet be killed as an example to her vanquished people.

The fighting was now confined to the third level of Wallis’s hall. Mathieu fought hand to hand, with Auvrai at his side, until they reached the last pocket of resistance. Five men defended the uppermost chamber, a circular tower with arrow nooks opening in each direction. Mathieu was certain the man giving the orders was Selwyn, Lady Aelia’s spurned betrothed.

He was no suitable husband for as beautiful a maid as Aelia. Selwyn was middle-aged, with grizzled features and a decided lack of respect for the woman whose family had given him refuge. Mathieu knew that the man’s lands had already been confiscated by King William, and that Selwyn had sought refuge at Ingelwald.

“This is the worm who would not negotiate for his lady’s life,” Mathieu called to Auvrai. He crossed swords with the man, letting his anger dictate every parry, every thrust of his blade. “He would prefer to steal her family’s holding from her than keep her from harm.”

Auvrai did not reply, nor did Mathieu expect an answer as they fought the cohorts of this Saxon lord. The battle was fierce, and when one of the whoresons swung his ax toward Auvrai’s blind side, Mathieu skewered the man.

He used both hands to wield his broadsword, slashing and hacking until one of the men swung his mace and nearly caught him in the throat, where his helm offered little protection. Mathieu ducked the blow and shoved the Saxon out the door, causing the man to pitch down the stairs. Selwyn bellowed at him in his Saxon tongue, clearly castigating him, but Mathieu had had enough. Too many of his men had been killed or wounded. Fires burned in the castle courtyard, and there was panic among the women and children. ’Twas ungodly hot in his armor, and Mathieu was out of patience.

“Yield!” he shouted.

Selwyn responded, but clearly did not yield.

“Your last warning, Saxon! Give in now, and I will consider sparing your life!”

Selwyn lunged, but Mathieu speared him with one last fatal thrust. Only a breath away from death, the Saxon tried to wield his sword again, muttering incoherently. He took one step toward Mathieu, but collapsed before he could raise his arm.

There were still two Saxons standing. When they saw Selwyn’s fate, they gave up their weapons.

“Pick him up,” Mathieu ordered, gesturing toward Selwyn with the tip of his broadsword.

The men did not understand his words, but Auvrai showed them what was required. The largest of the men hoisted Selwyn’s body to his shoulder and carried him to the stairs, then down to the main hall, where Norman knights continued to fight furiously for domination over their Saxon opponents.

One by one, the battles ceased as Ingelwald men caught sight of Selwyn’s bloody carcass. They pointed and exclaimed, and soon all were subdued by Mathieu’s men, who seized their weapons and herded them outside. The elation of victory was upon the Norman soldiers, and Mathieu knew there would be hell to pay if he did not take steps to protect that which had not yet been destroyed.

“Auvrai, Gilbert! Restrain them!” he shouted. “Osbern, find the ale…get some food. Divert these men from their bloodlust. I want the village and all who dwell within left intact!” Mathieu ordered. He would not begin his tenure here as a hated overlord.

’Twas several hours before Ingelwald was fully secured and his own warriors well occupied. Women and children were spared, as were any Saxon men who willingly laid down their weapons. Mathieu made his rounds, surveying the damage done, taking note of all that could be salvaged. He walked through Wallis’s hall—Aelia’s home—and gave instructions regarding the former lord’s possessions.

He entered a bedchamber that overlooked a courtyard, and realized he was in Lady Aelia’s private quarters. There could be no other occupant whose size fit the suit of cuir-bouilli, the hardened leather armor that lay on the narrow feather bed. When he picked up one of the gauntlets, his own hand dwarfed it, and he was appalled to think he might have met her in battle had she not ventured into his camp the previous night and become his prisoner. He would have assumed he was fighting an adolescent lad, not a woman.

’Twas not to say he had decided what to do with her. Should he hang her and the red-haired brat to demonstrate his power to the villagers? Or take her to William, where she would suffer a public humiliation before her execution?

Both options were difficult to swallow, though he knew not why he should care. Lady Aelia and her brother were no more than two obstacles to that which Mathieu desired with all his heart—this land, and the prestige of being one of William’s conquering champions…and the pride of bringing a beautiful, wellborn bride here, to his own rich holding.

A stringed instrument stood propped against one of the chamber walls, and a beautifully carved fruitwood recorder lay upon a trunk at the end of the bed. As one who had spent many a leisurely hour making his own carvings, Mathieu appreciated the fine craftsmanship of the piece, even as he imagined Aelia’s lips upon the instrument, and the music she would make. He opened the trunk and removed several articles of clothing—delicate chainsil and sturdy woolens. Placing the recorder across the center of the pile of clothes, he rolled it all into a neat package and carried it from the chamber.

“Find something to put this in,” he said, handing the bundle to one of his men. “And put it with the packs that will return to London with me.”

Hours passed, with no news of what was happening to Aelia’s home, to her people. When the acrid smell of smoke permeated the air around her, chafing her nose and burning her throat, she blinked back tears and vowed revenge. “The village!” she whispered to Osric. “They’ve torched our village!”

So many cottages, the shops, the livestock. All would be destroyed by the Norman bastard, who would take her father’s land and enslave her people.

Osric jumped to his feet, pulling the rope that bound him to Aelia. “I will kill him,” he said. But one of the Norman guards shoved him to the ground once again. “And you, too!”

“Take care, little brother,” Aelia said, blinking back her tears. She would be the one to exact their revenge upon Fitz Autier. She did not know how she would manage it, but somehow, she would kill the bastard and take Ingelwald back for their people.

As dusk grew near, riders approached and dismounted. “We’re to break camp,” one of them said. “And get these two back to the hall.”

Hall? Aelia almost laughed at the absurdity. What hall? She fired her questions at the Normans, but they did not give her the courtesy of a reply, merely ordering her and Osric to start walking.

Osric denounced the Norman guards in English, in French and in Latin as he trudged back through the forest toward Ingelwald. Aelia was too angry to say a word, and worried, too.

Would Fitz Autier kill her and Osric now? Had he waited until his victory was assured before executing them?

As they came closer to Ingelwald, the smoke became thicker, hovering low amid the branches in the woods. Aelia’s eyes teared so badly that her vision was impaired when they reached the edge of the wood and entered the village that lay outside the walls.

“’Tis still here!” Osric exclaimed.

Aelia wiped her eyes, though her sight still was not clear. “Hardly, Osric.” She knew about the Normans’ tactics—the devastation they wrought that took years to repair.

Yet Aelia gradually saw that the cottages remained intact, for the most part. The tannery, the weaver’s shop, the tavern…none had been destroyed. Fowl and swine ran loose between the buildings, and people called to her from their doorsteps.

Aelia’s throat felt too raw to answer. She stumbled blindly through the village until they reached Ingelwald’s timber gate, which lay shattered on the ground beneath her feet. Inside the walls, she heard the sounds of weeping. Here was proof of the Normans’ brutality.

The smallest of the buildings within the walls had been burned to the ground. Her father’s house remained, only because much of it was constructed of rock and stone, but Aelia had no doubt that the Norman bastard would raze it, too, when it suited him.

Osric pointed toward the area beside the armory, where a long row of bodies lay upon the ground, and a number of women stood holding each other, weeping.

Aelia’s heart lodged in her throat. Heedless of the knight who shouted at her, she walked toward the grieving women. Dead Normans and Saxons lay beside one another, as though they’d not spent their last days trying to butcher each other.

“My lady!” cried one mourning widow. She grabbed Aelia’s sleeve and knelt, pressing her forehead to Aelia’s knee. Her tears soaked through the soft wool of Aelia’s braies. “My Sigebert! ’Tis my Sigebert lying at your feet! What am I to do? Our children…”

“Hilda, come,” said another of the women.

“No! These Norman bastards killed him…my Sigebert….”

The woman took the widow away as others knelt and kissed Aelia’s hands.

Aelia swallowed. Her hatred had become a palpable thing. Everything in her field of vision became clouded by a red haze of rage, and her hands itched to do violence. She would vent her anger, but not just any Norman would do. When she loosed her wrath, ’twould be upon the leader of these vermin.

The guard tried to lead her back toward the great hall, but Aelia shrugged him off, pushing Osric ahead of her. “A weapon,” she said to her brother. “We must find something to use against these foreigners.”

“On the bodies,” Osric replied. “One of them must have a knife or… Look, Aelia,” he said. “’Tis Selwyn.”

True enough, the man who’d been chosen to be her husband lay among the dead. Aelia mourned him, not because of any particular fondness for the man, but because he was Saxon. He did not deserve this ignominious fate. Aelia vowed that he and all the other Saxon warriors would be decently buried.

Aelia reined in her temper and walked down the line of bodies, hesitating at each one to say a short prayer, while she searched for an overlooked weapon. When she came to the body of a woman laid out among the warriors, she gasped. ’Twas Erlina One-Ear, the pitiful crone who lived in a tiny cottage at the farthest end of the village. In recent years, Erlina had started muttering incoherently to herself as she walked through the village, and though her behavior seemed to become more bizarre with every passing month, she was harmless.

“’Twas murder,” Aelia said to Osric.

“There is no wound upon her.”

Aelia whirled ’round to face Fitz Autier, who stood watching her with his hands casually perched upon his narrow hips. He closed the distance between them. “Don’t try to convince me that you weren’t thinking the worst of me and my men. We didn’t kill the old woman.”

“Then how did she die?”

“Mayhap you should examine the body and tell me.”

“I am no leech, Norman. But neither was she a soldier.”

He wore a long, split hauberk, but his head remained uncovered. His hair was not barbered in the usual manner of Normans, but neglected and left to grow as it would. With one day’s growth of beard and the terrible slash across his cheek, he looked imposing and dangerous. Still Aelia found herself alarmingly drawn to him.

He slid her knife from his belt and sliced through the rope that bound her to Osric. “Take him to the prisoners’ quarters.”

“No!” Aelia cried, reaching for him. “He’s just a child!”

“I’m no child, Aelia!” Osric countered angrily. “I will stay with our men until it is time.”

“Time for what?” Fitz Autier asked, his voice an ominous growl of pique and displeasure. “Time for what, boy?”

Osric stared defiantly at the Norman leader, then spoke through his teeth. “For my execution, bastard.”

“Osric, no!” Aelia’s breath caught in her throat and she resisted closing her eyes against the surety of what was about to happen.

But rather than gutting the boy with the knife in his hand, Fitz Autier motioned to the guard to take him away.

“What will you do with him?”

Fitz Autier took hold of the rope that bound Aelia’s hands and pulled her beside him. “Better for you to consider what I will do with you, demoiselle.”

Aelia swallowed hard and stumbled alongside the Norman as he strode into the great hall of her father’s house. A fire burned in the massive hearth, providing the only light in the cavernous hall. A number of Frenchmen with bloody wounds lay upon pallets here, sleeping or moaning in pain.

Fitz Autier continued walking until he reached the stairs, then pushed her in front and made her climb. “Where are you taking me?”

“Keep moving,” he replied.

“I—I’m hungry.” She had not eaten all day.

“Gilbert!” He did not stop moving, but shouted to someone below. “Send food.”

“You…you can’t…I…”

“Say your piece, demoiselle,” Fitz Autier said. “You’ve had no trouble speaking your mind before now.”

They climbed to the topmost floor and stepped into the circular tower that was her father’s bedchamber. Fitz Autier freed her hands.

Aelia felt the blood rush from her head as she gazed into the once-familiar room. Wallis’s belongings were gone. The feather bed had been stripped of its hangings, and Wallis’s trunks were missing. One thin blanket lay at the foot of the bed, and a massive suit of armor had been placed in the farthest corner beside a three-legged stool.

Her father had been dead merely a month, yet this usurper had moved in as if he had every right to do so. As if her father had never been lord here.

“None of this is yours!”

“You think not, my lady?” He took hold of her arm and led her roughly to the window. “Observe. All that you see is mine. You are vanquished, Saxon.”

Aelia turned to slap his arrogant face, but he caught her hand and pressed it against the cool metal hauberk covering his chest. ’Twas the place where no normal heart pulsed, but a cold and cruel one.

Yet he did not strike back. He lowered his head, until his lips were but a breath away from hers.

And then he kissed her.

Chapter Five

’T was meant to punish her for her impertinence, her utter disregard for his authority. Lady Aelia needed to understand who was in control at Ingelwald—and it was not she.

Lust played no part in his actions. He was merely demonstrating his mastery over her when he urged her mouth to open under his, when his tongue touched hers, when he tipped his head for better access to her lips.

Yet he damned the chain hauberk that kept him from feeling her soft breasts pressing against his chest, and the fluttering of her heart. Her shoulders were small and yielding under his war-hardened hands. Her back was narrow, her stature surprisingly delicate, considering her fiery nature.

And Mathieu wanted to consume her. He slid his hands around her waist, touching the crests of her hips as he lowered his mouth to her jaw, then her ear and her throat, sipping, tasting Aelia. She was a powerful elixir, drugging him, dissolving his common sense.

And when he realized that, he pulled away.

Mathieu released Aelia so suddenly she stumbled back a step before regaining her balance. Her face was flushed and he saw confusion in her green eyes, but Gilbert de Bosc pushed open the door to the chamber and strode in before either of them managed to say a word.

“Your supper, Sir Mathieu,” he said, looking for a place to set the platter of food.

“Put it on the bed,” Mathieu said as two more of his men entered. They carried a large trunk and a washstand, and set them on the floor in the far corners of the room.

Mathieu sat down on the bed and made a deliberate show of turning his attention to the food. The kiss meant naught. ’Twas only to demonstrate his complete dominance over her.

“There are Saxons below who are ready to swear fealty to you, Sir Mathieu.”

“No!”

Shock and outrage rang clear in Aelia’s tone, but Mathieu studiously avoided looking at her. He poured ale into a cup and took a healthy swallow. “Give them a meal and have them wait for me.”

“You bribe them for their loyalty!” Aelia cried. “’Tis a thin mark of fidelity that you win here, Norman.”

Mathieu stood abruptly. “What makes you so sure, Lady Aelia? What has changed for these people, besides the name of their liege lord?”

“They—”

“Naught,” he said as he walked to the door. “They will go on as before, but in the future, they will have an overlord who will protect them.”

“Who will grow rich through their labors.”

“As your father did not?”

“Our people respected and revered Wallis! He was a fair and generous man—”

“Who overindulged his offspring. Cease your chatter now, and partake of this meal before it’s taken away!”

He walked out and let the heavy door slam behind him. “She is not to leave this room,” he said to the guards who awaited him.

“Yes, baron.”

He could not get down the stairs fast enough to suit him. The woman was impossible. Tedious. And he had more important things to do than dally with her in the chamber he planned to use for the duration of his stay at Ingelwald. He did not care whom it had belonged to before his victory here.

There was no weapon in the room. He wouldn’t leave her armed, but Aelia could not help but hope she would find a forgotten dagger among his things.

She pulled the door open, but came face-to-face with two Norman guards who would not let her pass. “Am I a prisoner here?” she demanded.

“Yes, my lady,” one of the men replied.

Aelia huffed indignantly and returned to her father’s chamber, slamming the door behind her. She hoped it fell off its hinges.

But when it did not, she was reduced to pacing the length of the room while she cursed her Norman captor. Repeatedly.

If she’d been hungry before, that kiss had taken away her appetite. What had she been thinking, allowing him such intimacy? The man had butchered her people and taken away their homes. He’d bound and imprisoned her brother, a mere child. And now he’d usurped her father’s own chamber.

The truth was, she had not been thinking. His kiss had been pure sensation—a tingling heat that had frozen her mind but warmed her body. She hadn’t realized that a simple kiss could do such a thing, and wondered if Fitz Autier had felt the same.

No, most likely not. Or he would not have broken away from her just as she’d begun to feel the same ravishing sensations she’d experienced the night before. Aelia took a deep breath and turned her thoughts to a more productive line. ’Twas pointless to give any further consideration to that kiss, or anything she’d felt while imprisoned in his tent.

She had to figure a way to defeat the Norman knight. Mayhap his army was stronger than hers, but if Aelia could kill Fitz Autier, his men would have no choice but to surrender and return Ingelwald to its rightful masters.

How was she to kill him? Without a weapon, there was little hope of that.

Aelia sat down on the edge of the bed and eyed the platter. She had not eaten since the night before, yet food no longer interested her. There was a gnawing pain at her center that had naught to do with hunger. Her belly roiled at her defeat, her imprisonment, her humiliation.

Her life should have been forfeit when Selwyn refused to surrender. Yet she still lived and breathed, while he lay dead in the courtyard.

The line of bodies had not been as long as Aelia had anticipated. Only twenty Ingelwald men lay dead, alongside another twenty Normans. Even so, none of those brave Saxons had had to die. If the greedy William had not sent his knights to every corner of England, there would have been no reason for the death and destruction wrought over these last two years.

Her father would still be alive.

Never had her need for his counsel been so great, nor her desire for his fatherly embrace. Aelia felt like a lost child again, frail and vulnerable, and in need of protection. Wallis had always provided that.

She pressed one hand against her chest as if she could hold in her anguish, and dropped to her knees beside the bed. Her father was gone and she’d had little time to shed her tears when, weeks ago, they’d put him in the ground. Tears pooled in Aelia’s eyes now as she lowered her head to the bed and wept for her father and Godwin, and all that had been lost.

Mathieu was weary of war. After two years of death and destruction, he wanted nothing more than to settle here at Ingelwald in peace. He was no fool, though. The Saxons of Wallis’s fyrd who’d just sworn fealty were no more loyal to him than they were to King William. They’d merely done the most expedient thing in order to get on with their lives.

Auvrai d’Evreux would remain at Ingelwald to deal with them and to keep order when Mathieu left for London. Auvrai would be the one to oversee the reinforcement of the protective walls, and the improvements to the hall. When Mathieu wed Lady Clarise, she would have an impressive home here at Ingelwald.

He picked up a lamp and started up the stairs toward the master’s chamber. Sleep would be a welcome amenity just now, but Mathieu did not know if he would be able to rest with Lady Aelia in the room. ’Twould be best if he found himself a bed elsewhere, but—

The rasp of unsheathed steel made Mathieu swing ’round abruptly and reach for his sword. The figure on the landing was swathed in shadow, but his blade gleamed bright in the lamplight, and it was poised to strike between the loosened buckles of Mathieu’s hauberk. Mathieu raised his sword arm in a gesture of resignation.

When the assailant moved slightly into the light, Mathieu saw that he was merely an adolescent boy with the downy fur of his first beard. However, the boy’s age would not keep him from moving in for the kill, Mathieu knew.

“The lady…” the lad said. “You have no right.”

His French was passable, though his accent was thick. His sword hand trembled.

“You would protect Lady Aelia from me?”

“She is lady of Ingelwald,” the boy said. “All men here protect…honor…her.”

All Mathieu had to do was toss the lamp to one side and pull away from the point of the sword. But throwing a candle, even though ’twas enclosed in the lamp, would be a perilous choice. The manor house was made mostly of wood, and the rushes on the floors were extremely combustible.

“Your devotion is admirable.” ’Twould be an easy task to disarm and kill this boy. But his death, when they’d just won peace here, would cause far more trouble than Mathieu wanted. Still, he would not be cowed by a youth with a weapon. “I intend no harm to the lady.”

“Release her!” the boy demanded.

Mathieu felt the sword pierce his flesh, and he gritted his teeth against the pain and eased away. “That will not be possible.”

He made a sudden feint to the right, pulling away from the boy’s blade. Raising his own weapon, he found ’twas an easy feat to knock the boy’s sword from his hand and back him up against the wall.

At the sound of the scuffle, guards from the hall below and the upper floor took to the stairs. When they arrived upon the landing in between, Mathieu already had the situation under control.

“Your loyalty does you credit,” he said, pulling the boy’s arms behind him. “And because of it, your life is spared.”

The Saxon, gone pale either with fury or fear, did not speak.

“What is your name?”

“Halig.”

Mathieu turned him over to the guards. “Lock him up with the others.”

“Lady Aelia is good woman, Norman,” the boy said. “You take her—”

“No harm will come to the woman as long as she behaves.”

Mathieu could not fault Halig for attempting to protect Aelia. ’Twas what he would have done had Queen Mathilda or any other innocent woman been in peril. But Aelia was no innocent. She’d donned armor and raised her bow against his men. Mathieu himself bore a gash upon his face as a result of her arrow.

Yet she had the loyalty and love of her people. Mathieu had taken note of the homage they’d paid her when she’d walked across Ingelwald’s grounds. Old and young alike revered her. ’Twas Aelia’s defeat—more than Selwyn’s—that had won Ingelwald for Mathieu.

He continued up the staircase, more watchful now as he approached the master’s chamber. One of the two guards he’d posted at the door was still on duty. Mathieu passed him and entered the room, half expecting an attack upon his life, even though he’d been careful to leave Lady Aelia no weapon.

Lamplight flickered in the periphery of the room, casting her sleeping form in shadows.

Her head lay upon her crossed arms on the mattress, but her body was curled on the floor at the bedside. Her eyes were closed, her breathing slow and regular. ’Twas as if she’d sat down beside the bed to await his return, but had fallen asleep instead.

The food on the plate was untouched, and Mathieu wondered when she’d last eaten. Earlier, she’d complained of hunger.

’Twas not his concern. If she refused to eat, he could do naught but watch her starve herself.

But he would put her to bed, then go and deal with his newest wound. Mathieu crouched down to pick her up, and she made a small sound, much like a sigh, yet more. ’Twas the sound of despair.

And there was moisture upon her cheeks.

Mathieu gathered her into his arms and lifted her to the bed, grimacing when her body touched the gash in his side. He didn’t think the boy had done much more than scratch him. Mayhap the wound was worse than that.

He lay Aelia upon the bed, then set the plate of food on the trunk, and covered her with his blanket. When she stirred restlessly, he moved away from her, quietly removing the battle horn that was still strapped over his shoulder. He lowered the heavy hauberk to the floor and walked toward the lamplight, unlacing his thin undertunic. The lower right side was covered with blood.

With a muttered curse, Mathieu pulled the sherte over his head and looked at the wound. ’Twas deep enough to need stitching, though not bad enough to cause him serious worry. He’d had worse, but he was going to need help tending it.

He opened the door and spoke to the guard, sending him to find Sir Auvrai, a man who knew more about healing than any surgeon Mathieu had ever known. Then he closed the door and went to the washstand, where a basin of water and several clean cloths awaited him.

Stitches were likely to chafe and bother him on the journey to London, but there was naught to do about it. He had no intention of putting off his return to William’s court, thereby delaying his betrothal. The sooner he wed Clarise and returned to Ingelwald, the better.

“What happened?”

Mathieu turned and watched Aelia swing her legs over the edge of the bed and stand. Even from across the room, he could see that her eyes were red-rimmed and wary.

“You’re bleeding. Did the mighty Norman knight suffer a mishap with his sword?”

“’Twas a lucky jab from your overzealous swain.” He turned away from her, but heard the floor creak under her feet as she approached. “Why are you not sleeping?”

“I never meant to sleep.”

Mathieu sucked in a breath when she touched the laceration.

“This needs sewing.”

“And what would you know of it?”

“More than I like. Give me that.” She took the cloth from his hand and swabbed the wound carefully.

“You didn’t eat.”

“Having a Norman in my father’s bedchamber turned my stomach.” Mathieu held his breath as she pressed the edges of the cut. Her touch was gentle, yet knowledgeable.

“You have some skill here, demoiselle.”

“Not by my choice, Norman,” she replied. “My father said ’twas a lady’s duty to tend the sick and injured of her estate. I learned all I know from Erlina—the old woman who lay dead in my father’s courtyard. She was a fine healer before her mind turned.” Aelia took a clean cloth and dropped it in the basin of water. “Whoever speared you missed anything important.”

“’Twas one of your admirers, defending your honor.”

Aelia’s hand stilled and she gazed up at Mathieu with contempt. “Did you kill him?”

“He was just a boy. Of course I did not kill him, even though—” A sharp knock at the door interrupted him. “Enter!”

’Twas the herald, Gilbert de Bosc, carrying the leather satchel in which Sir Auvrai kept his medicines. Gilbert was no warrior, but a man fluent in the Saxon tongue. Mathieu had never seen him wield a sword in battle and did not know if he would be able to defend himself if necessary. Still, he had his uses, besides functioning as an interpreter. His administrative skills were immense, and he was free to tend the sick and wounded. “Sir Auvrai will be here presently.”

“Tell him not to bother. Lady Aelia will attend me.” Mathieu took the satchel and handed it to her.

“Baron, are you certain—”

“Auvrai has more pressing duties, and the lady has convinced me she is competent.”

It seemed overwarm in the chamber. Aelia pushed open the shutters to let in the evening air before turning once again to face the Norman’s naked chest and rippling muscles. ’Twould not be possible to overpower him. Still, his sword lay nearby, and he’d placed her dagger upon the washstand. If she could—

“If you’re thinking of using the moment to do me some damage, demoiselle,” he warned, taking her blade in hand and stabbing the sharp tip into the wood of the stand, “I urge you to reconsider.”

Aelia bit her lip and pushed up her sleeves. “This will be easier if you lie on the bed.”

He pushed the wooden stool closer to the lamplight and sat down, letting his knees drift apart. “This will do.”

“You expect me to kneel before you?”

“Do what you will, demoiselle,” he said. “But get the sewing done.”

He raised his right arm and rested it upon the washstand, giving Aelia better access to the laceration in his side, as well as a better view of his brawny chest and shoulder. Aelia had no doubt that the visual display was meant to intimidate her.

She glanced at the wound, then at the needle in her hand. The gash needed five stitches to hold it closed.

She knew how to make it ten. There was more than one way to kill a Norman and she would discover it before the evening was out.

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