A Man of Value (10 page)

This woman was made for me.

~~~

There was some pain, but Agneta’s building need outweighed it and she curled her legs around his body to drive him deeper. He found his rhythm and she matched it stroke for stroke. She was as astonished at the force of her passion as he seemed to be. She felt the sensation of his essence pumping into her and decided, in her near delirium, it was the most fulfilling thing she’d ever felt. She tensed the muscles of her sheath to hold on to him and felt her muscles throbbing involuntarily against him long after they’d both found release.

He must feel it too.

She twirled her fingers in his hair as he lay atop her, breathing heavily.

“I’m surprised no one came to see what the screaming was about. The landlady must have warned everyone there were newlyweds upstairs,” he laughed. “I never want to leave this bed.”

After a while he rose and went to get water and a cloth. He cleansed his own body then came over to the bed. “Would you like me to cleanse you, my lady wife?” he drawled.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“But I want to do it,” he replied, gently wiping the blood from her thighs. “You took care of my bodily needs. Now I want to do the same for you.”

She tugged the linens around her shoulders, to ward off the chill. “I didn’t know a man and a woman could—could share—something so—”

She couldn’t express her feelings, couldn’t look at him.

He put his arm around her shoulders, and smoothed her disheveled hair off her face. “We’re lucky, Agneta. Not every man and his wife experience what we’ve found. You and I fit together perfectly. You were made for me. I’ve always had the feeling my own mother didn’t share with my father the pleasurable passions we’ve shared this night.”

Agneta’s thoughts went to her dead parents, and the love her mother boasted of fiercely. Had Ragna Kirkthwaite experienced with her Saxon husband the same heart-stopping ecstasy she’d enjoyed?

No wonder she couldn’t bear the thought of life without him.

This was dangerous. Agneta never wanted to be hurt again by the loss of someone she loved. Better to be detached.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“I want to go to Bolton one last time before we leave Northumbria.”

Caedmon hesitated then cinched the girth around Wyvern’s belly. They were preparing to leave the lodging house. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“I have to go, Caedmon. You know I do.”

“Very well.”

She could tell he was none too pleased as they set off. She too dreaded the idea of going back to the manor where her world had ended. She was entrusting her future to Caedmon in another border region where life might be as unpredictable as it had been in Northumbria. But Northumbria was her homeland and for some reason she didn’t understand, she had to see Bolton one more time. It wasn’t likely she would ever return to the north. Would she want to?

Caedmon’s tension increased as they neared the village a short time later.

“Don’t worry. I won’t betray you,” she murmured to the back of his head. His shoulders stiffened.

On the outskirts she noticed with surprise that several cottages had been restored and rethatched. They looked clean with their fresh whitewash. The gazes of a few villagers followed them as they made their way towards the manor house.

“Lady Agneta?”

Caedmon reined the horse suddenly and she came close to toppling off. Clutching Caedmon’s jerkin, she turned to see who’d spoken her name. “Desmond!” she cried in recognition, taking the hand the young man proffered. “It’s good to see you. I’m relieved you survived the raid. Your parents?”

“The brutes killed my da’, but ma still lives. We thought you were in the convent, at Alnwick.”

“I was—but now I’m married. This is Sir Caedmon I ride with, my husband.”

The boy eyed the knight, and nodded, then looked back to Agneta. By now a crowd had gathered. “We wish thee well, then, Lady Agneta,” said Desmond’s mother. “It’s glad we are you’re still alive, after—”

She looked curiously at Caedmon. “Your husband is a Saxon?”

“Aye, I’m a Saxon,” Caedmon replied.

“Huh. Ye sound like a Scot,” someone in the crowd murmured.

Caedmon was about to reply, but Agneta interrupted. “We’re headed for my husband’s manor, in the Welsh Marches. I wanted to see Kirkthwaite Hall, one last time.”

“Not much left,” Desmond said dispiritedly. “Earl of Northumbria came to look at it, but the Normans don’t seem interested in the ruin. They leave us alone, more or less, so long as we pay their taxes.”

“Let’s go, Agneta. Let’s get this over with,” Caedmon whispered, urging his horse forward to crest the rise. The villagers watched them go.

Agneta steeled her body, sure he must feel her fingernails digging into his waist. Yet the sight of what remained of her childhood home still made her cry out. Caedmon tensed.

“Stay here,” she told him, sliding from Wyvern’s back.

It wasn’t the charred timbers that bothered Caedmon. A host of bad memories swept over him as he sat atop his horse, watching Agneta pick her broken way around the outskirts of the ruined manor. The faint odour of smoke still clung, borne, he thought, on the swirling clouds of black dust whipped up by the wind. His wife fell to her knees beside the untidy mound where her family had been buried, the crude marker now overgrown. He would remember the faces of the gallant defenders interred there to his dying day.

The hardest sight of all was the tumbledown barn he and Leofric had looked up at, full of regret and self-loathing at what they’d witnessed, what they’d been an unwilling part of. It still stood, a gaunt memorial of his sin. “What a naive, idealistic fool I was,” he said aloud.

Agneta had lain hidden there, watching him, after seeing her father and brothers murdered. How could she not judge him to be like those maniacal Scots marauders? How could she ever come to love him? It was a forlorn hope. What was she remembering as she walked slowly around the ruin? Childhood games with her brothers? Love and laughter with her parents? Feasts in the Great Hall?

“Thank God we didn’t burn the barn,” he muttered with a shudder.

No, Agneta would never love him, though he loved her, burned for her with a passion he’d never known. He’d helped to destroy her life. Now he felt honour bound to ensure her future was secure, that she wouldn’t want for anything. They would go to Ruyton and build a good life together. She would never forgive him, but he would try his best to erase the terrible memories.

I so swear, Agneta.

As Caedmon offered his firm hand to help her remount the horse, Agneta couldn’t look into his eyes. Hers watered and burned with the grit from the smoky dust. She was afraid she would feel hatred when she looked at him again, but she didn’t. It was something else she felt as his strong fingers closed around hers and heaved her up. It was hope and longing, grief and fear, regret and expectation, all mingled together. But it wasn’t hate. She found she couldn’t hate this warrior she’d married, try as she might.

She sat behind him, rigid as a post, her hands resting lightly on his hips. He made no move to set the horse in motion. “We won’t go until you’re ready, Agneta,” he rasped. She felt the tension in his body, heard the deeper hoarseness in his voice.

“I’m ready,” she murmured, leaning forward to rest her head on his back, looping her arms around his waist, pressing her breasts to his comforting warmth.

“To Ruyton, then.”

She heard the deep sigh he exhaled, as if he’d been holding his breath, and felt his body relax as they rode away, back to the Abbey to meet up with the others. She didn’t look back as the silent tears rolled down her cheeks.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The journey to Ruyton took twice as long as it should. With two of them on the horse they didn’t want to tire out their mount. They rode slowly and every mile was pleasurable torture for Caedmon. His manhood rioted against her bottom when she sat before him.

Occasionally she rode behind. “I love the feel of your arms around my waist, and your body pressed up against my back,” he told her. He didn’t tell her he’d money enough for another horse, hoping the enforced closeness might help ease the rift that stood between them. Nor did he want to draw the attention of any ne’er-do-well who might judge them rich pickings.

Their route took them south to the River Tyne.

“The Normans have built a wooden bridge at the easiest point to cross the river,” Caedmon explained. “They have a fort there, but hopefully we won’t attract their attention. We aren’t carrying anything they can tax. My mother and Enid will cross with us, Leofric with the Brightmores. The others aren’t going west but continuing south from here. They’ll take the wagon, then we should make better time.”

Agneta suddenly tensed. “Pass me the bundle I gave you at the Abbey.”

“The bundle?”

“Quickly, Caedmon, pass it to me. I want to conceal it, under my skirts.”

“What?”

“Just pass it to me.”

He was perplexed at her urgency. He passed her the bundle and she concealed it, a moment or two before a Norman sentry blocked their path.

He held up his hand. “
Arrêtez
! Where are you bound, Saxons?”

Caedmon fought to control his ire at the disparaging way the man spoke to them. “My wife and I journey to Ruyton, in the Welsh Marches.”

“A long journey—on one mount. Who are the old women?”

His mother bristled and looked away from the sentry, her nose in the air. “My mother and her maidservant.”

The sentry’s eyes wandered over the horses, looked Caedmon over, then lingered on Agneta. He barely glanced at the others. “Why are you going there?”

“We’re
en route
to Shelfhoc Hall, it’s my—it’s a manor house, under the protection of the Earl of Ellesmere. I’m to be the new steward.”

“The Earl, eh? A steward who sounds like a Scot?” Once again the sentry’s eyes wandered over Agneta. “
Allez
. Safe journey to you, then.”

His mother’s lips twitched into an imperceptible smile. He urged the horse forward across the bridge and felt the tension leave Agneta’s body as she sucked in a deep breath. He wondered what was hidden up her skirt that had her in such a state.

“The Normans and their much vaunted
Peace of God
, my arse,” he whispered. “Saxons are only safe if they can lay claim to a Norman protector. I wanted to rip out his cursed Norman eyes for the way he looked at you.”

Agneta cuddled into him more tightly and he pressed his arms over hers. “Once across, we’ll follow the river and the Roman Wall westward, to Carlisle.”

Agneta shivered. “I daren’t look down. I hate water. I’ll feel safer once we’ve crossed, and I can hand back this burden. The sackcloth is chafing my skin.”

But Caedmon sensed there was much more to it than a minor discomfort. Would she ever allow him to share her burdens?

~~~

In the tiny village of Wylam, the lodging house didn’t have enough room for all of them. Caedmon, Leofric and Agneta slept in the stables. A beck ran behind the building. The current was too swift for them to enter the water, especially since Agneta couldn’t swim, but Caedmon was able to draw water for drinking and washing. Agneta wouldn’t go near the water.

“This isn’t very grand, I’m afraid,” he lamented.

“It’s all right, Caedmon. We have no alternative,” she replied coldly.

“I’ll keep you warm,” he offered.

“I’m not concerned about warmth. I just don’t like things that scurry and crawl and stables are full of them.”

He teased her by walking his fingers up her arm. “Don’t worry, I won’t let the wee beasties bite you.”

She pushed his hand away with a grimace. “Stop that!”

He could see she wasn’t in a good mood. In an effort to lighten it, he suggested, “Let’s go inside and at least sample their ale.”

“Will we be welcome?”

“I think so. It’s an old Saxon village. Haven’t seen any Normans about.”

“Aye, the cursed lord of Balliol gave our village to the Priory at Tynemouth,” one of the villagers complained, once the travellers had been judged acceptable, and the conversation inevitably turned to the invaders. “Nigh on eight year sin’.”

“And do the monks ever come here?” Leofric asked as he joined them.

“No,
Godemite
, but they take their due from us. Curse the Normans.”

“Aye. I’ll drink to that curse,” Caedmon replied, raising his tankard.

“But you’re Scots. What do you care?”

“No. We’re not Scots. We’re Saxons. I’m the son of a hero of Hastings, a
housecarl
to King Harold,” Caedmon retorted proudly. “My fellow knight here, Leofric, is a hero of Alnwick. And my wife is a Northumbrian girl, born and bred.”

“Northumbria? One of us then? Whereabouts?”

“Bolton, near Alnwick,” Agneta murmured, looking uncomfortable.

Caedmon’s heart lurched. Why had he mentioned Agneta was from Northumbria?

“Ah, de Mowbray’s territory,” one of the villagers observed.

“Aye,” Caedmon replied, unable to look at Agneta.

“God go with thee, then, young Saxons.”

~~~

“My father told me of this Hadrian’s wall, but the height and length of it is astounding,” Agneta remarked as they continued their journey. “It must have taken years to build?”

“Aye, I estimate it’s about ten feet wide and we’ve passed many ruined forts built into it. The Romans surely wanted everyone to recognize they held the power. Just like the Normans. After hundreds of years, you can still see the whitewashed plaster in some places. The sun on it would have made it visible for miles. Arrogant bastards!”

“Caedmon,” Lady Ascha remonstrated.

“Sorry, Mother. I’m used to the company of men. My tongue ran away with me. You’d think I
was
a Scot.”

He regretted his jest as he felt Agneta stiffen behind him. She kept her hands on his hips, but withdrew her body, and sat rigidly.

“Keep tight hold,” he tried. “The going here is treacherous in places on these moors. They say it will improve once we reach the old Roman road at Corbridge. The Stanegate will take us all the way to Carlisle.”