Margo Maguire (11 page)

Though Clarise might be the most desirable wife in the kingdom, Mathieu did not know how long he could resist his attraction to Aelia. Yet it made no sense. Unlike the beauties at Court, Aelia took no pains to make herself presentable. She wore no finery, nor was her hair arranged in any intricate fashion. She spoke her mind and showed her temper.

But it was all Mathieu could do to keep from pulling her close and fusing his lips to hers. He wanted to taste her, to feel her fiery spirit as he possessed her. His hands itched to feel the fullness of her breasts as he looked into her eyes, and his body ached to pierce through the barrier of her innocence, taking her for his own.

With a shaky breath, Mathieu extinguished the candle. He was trapped. He’d never experienced such unrelenting lust for a woman, not even Clarise. If only he could send Auvrai to London with Aelia and the boy…. But Mathieu was compelled to present himself in person for his formal betrothal to Clarise. And if he left Aelia here at Ingelwald, he had no assurance that this intense craving for her would abate by the time he returned.

His only option was to take her to London and leave
her there. And he would do everything in his power to avoid her as they traveled together.

A soft rain had begun to fall by the time Mathieu left the old woman’s cottage and entered the gates to the hall. The grounds were deserted due to the rain, except for two people—women—walking together ahead of him. One of them was Aelia. Curious about her purpose, Mathieu followed the pair to one of the workshops.

The shop belonged to the master carpenter. Mathieu had visited every building earlier in the day, and talked to all the craftsmen, with Sir Gilbert as interpreter. But the carpenter had been ill and unable to speak with Mathieu. The man’s wife and daughters seemed to believe he would not last out the day.

Mathieu wondered why Aelia had been summoned here. He stepped inside.

The workshop contained all manner of items crafted from wood—chairs and tables, stools and cupboards, as well as several beautifully carved musical instruments. But what interested Mathieu most were the pieces displayed on the shelves in the workroom.

The carpenter was a master carver. Mathieu picked up a crucifix the man had crafted with intricate detail. He ran his fingers over the smoothly planed and polished wood and took note of the careful strokes and cuts that made the piece remarkable. The next statue was the face of a young girl. ’Twas carved in such a way that it seemed to be emerging from a gnarled and weathered piece of wood unlike anything Mathieu had ever seen. He wanted to spend more time studying each piece, but the voices in the private quarters drew him.

Firelight cast a flickering glow on the room, but Mathieu could see that it was comfortably furnished. The priest was in attendance, and stood at the carpenter’s
bedside, anointing him and uttering the Latin prayers for the dying. The man’s wife knelt in tearful prayer, as did two adolescent girls, presumably the man’s daughters, while Aelia sat on a low stool, holding the craftsman’s hand.

When the formal prayers ended, the carpenter spoke to Aelia. His speech was labored, and interrupted often by his efforts to catch his breath. Aelia listened patiently, then spoke to him. Mathieu could not understand her words, but her tone was gentle and kind, while her face bore the stricken expression she wore all too often.

When Aelia got up, she urged the carpenter’s wife to take the seat beside her dying husband. Then she knelt on the floor with the daughters and bowed her head in a posture of prayer until the room became silent. The carpenter had taken his last breath.

Quiet weeping ensued, and the priest raised his hand in blessing as he murmured prayers for the dead. The daughters’ shoulders slumped, and Aelia put one arm ’round each of them, then stood and embraced the weeping wife, until she caught sight of Mathieu, standing near the door of the shop.

Using the back of her hand, she wiped tears from her cheeks. “Have you come for your first
heriot,
Norman?”

“You always manage to think the worst of me,
demoiselle.
Please give the women my condolences and ask the priest to offer Mass for the carpenter every week for a year.”

“I will do so, seignior,” replied the priest. His perfect French surprised Mathieu.

“Father Ambrosius was my teacher,” explained Aelia.

“And Beorn the Carpenter gave you your music,” the priest interjected.

“Aye,” Aelia whispered, then returned to the grieving women. She kept her eyes on Mathieu while she spoke to them, then pulled her shawl ’round her shoulders and head, and came to the door.

“I need no guard to take me to my room,” she said, pushing past him. She strode ahead, moving quickly through the workshop and exiting the building.

He should have let her go. He had just decided ’twas necessary to keep a safe distance between them, but Mathieu could do naught but follow her in the rain, across the muddy ground. With ease, he caught up to her brisk pace.

“I told you, I am all right on my own,” Aelia said.

Belying her words, she tripped and would have fallen had Mathieu not caught her arm and steadied her. Rain soaked the shawl that covered her head, and mingled with the tears on her face.

“Allow me to escort you, my lady.”

“Are you afraid I might run off in the night, Fitz Autier? Somehow escape your Norman yoke?”

The most prudent thing would be to let her go. On a night like this, only a fool would try to run from warmth and shelter, and Aelia was no fool.

“What did you say to the carpenter’s family?” he asked, suspicious of her interchange in the shop. ’Twould behoove her to foment ill feelings and distrust between him and the Saxons. “Did you tell them I demanded payment before the man’s body was even cold?”

“No,” she whispered.

“What then? That they would have to vacate the premises immediately?”

She shook her head. “I merely gave words of sympathy and told them I was leaving Ingelwald in the morn.”

“And that was all?”

Her chin trembled. “I said ’twas unlikely that I will return here…but that they would do well to—to trust you. I told them that you are an honorable man.”

I
t was just past dawn and Mathieu was saddling his horse when the guards brought Aelia’s brother to him. “Ah, ’tis Osric the Terrible,” he said. The boy’s wrists were tied together at his waist, but still he struggled against the guards who had brought him to the stable.

“I prefer my jail, Norman!” the boy cried.

Mathieu buckled his pack and secured it to the saddle. “You will accompany me on my search for a deserter.”

Osric spat on the ground. “Let them
all
desert!”

“I assume you know the territory of your father’s holding,” Mathieu said. His sister did, too. But Mathieu wanted to stay clear of her as long as possible.

“Little use it will be to you.”

Mathieu mounted his horse. One of the guards lifted Osric and handed him to Mathieu, but the boy started to scream as though he were being tortured. Mathieu settled him on the saddle before him, then tied his hands to the pommel.

“Do not think of jumping. You will kill or maim yourself.”

’Twas no great feat to subdue the small boy, but the sounds of his struggle caught the attention of the person Mathieu least wanted to see.

“What are you doing with Osric?” Aelia cried, running across the grounds toward him. “Where are you taking him?”

The boy screamed and shouted at his sister, but Mathieu quickly restrained him. “Sit still or you will regret it.”

Aelia came close, to stand at the horse’s side. When she placed one hand upon Osric’s leg, Mathieu turned his gaze away toward the gate. He did not wish to see her giving comfort to the little hellion. He would much rather feel her gentle hand upon his own heated skin.

“Where, seignior?”

“On a search detail,
demoiselle,
” he said. “The boy will come to no harm…at least not from any of us. What he does to himself will be another matter.”

“Please, baron, allow him to remain here with me. I will see that he—”

“He rides with us. Stand aside,
demoiselle.
”

Speaking harshly, Mathieu did not spare her a glance, but spurred his horse toward the gate, with seven of his men following. What she thought of him was of no consequence. He had decided to search for Durand before leaving Ingelwald, and if it meant using her brother for his familiarity with the terrain, he would do so. Aelia could have helped him, but Mathieu had no intention of passing the day in close quarters with her. Besides, ’twas necessary to spend time with the boy to assess how disruptive he was going to be when they traveled to London.

Osric eventually wearied of his struggle and limited himself to making derogatory remarks about Normandy
and King William. Then he rode quietly for a time, but refused to answer any questions about the terrain or the trails that intersected the road. Mathieu had little experience dealing with children, but he vaguely recalled his own youth, and his vulnerable pride.

“’Tis unfortunate your father did not allow you to explore his lands,” Mathieu said, as much to distract himself as to pique Osric’s overblown pride. “I should have brought your sister.”

“I went about as much as Aelia!” Osric protested. “More!”

“I cannot believe it. Or you would know much about the paths hereabouts.”

“That path circles ’round the high side of a ravine,” Osric said, pointing to their right. “No one goes up there, unless they’re herding sheep.”

“And what about here? Surely you’ve never seen where this one leads.”

“Of course I’ve traveled it. If you follow this path, you’ll soon ride through a dense forest.”

Mathieu was familiar with the area where his army had camped prior to attacking Ingelwald, and he knew the northern road, since he’d traveled it with Aelia. But with Osric, he discovered much about the western territory and the most likely path Durand had followed. Mathieu split his men into three companies, each group taking a different direction. He warned them to travel cautiously and to beware of ambush. Then he took the western route and rode hard, with the intention of catching up to Durand if the tracks he saw belonged to the scoundrel.

Unfortunately, the night’s rain had obscured any sure trail. At midday, there was still no sign of him. Mathieu’s small group stopped their horses just inside a copse of trees and dismounted.

“Are you hungry?” he asked Osric.

The boy shrugged. “I could eat.”

The men took food and drink from their packs and shared what they had with Osric. He ate quietly and his demeanor seemed to improve, but Mathieu noticed him inching his way toward a dagger that had been left untended on a tree stump. Mathieu allowed Osric to take the dagger and slip it into his trews, and he waited for the boy to try to use the weapon.

The moment came when Mathieu reached for Osric to lift him onto the horse.

In one swift movement, he pulled the knife out and slashed at Mathieu, who dodged the blow and disarmed the boy.

“You were wise to take a weapon suited to your size,” Mathieu said, unsurprised by the boy’s gumption, “but you must use it more effectively. Raoul, hand me your seax.”

’Twas a weapon shorter than a sword, but longer than a knife. The size made it more manageable for the boy, and Mathieu handed it to him, showing him how to hold it.

“I can hold a sword, Norman!”

“I see that, little Saxon,” Mathieu said as he hid his smile. The boy’s temperament was as fiery as his red hair. All he needed was discipline and training, and he would make a formidable knight one day. “Now, wield it as though you intend me harm.”

“I
do
intend you harm,” Osric cried as he jabbed once, and then again, though Mathieu easily stepped away from each thrust.

“Here…this is what you must do,” Mathieu said.

He had merely intended to demonstrate who was in charge here, but it turned into a lesson of swordsman
ship and defense instead, while Raoul and Guilliaume cheered and offered instructions at a safe distance. The lad did his best to injure Mathieu, who actually gave him instruction on how to do it.

’Twas absurd.

But Osric was somewhat more forthcoming afterward.

“Have you ever been to Grantham?” he asked the boy.

“Once,” Osric replied grudgingly, “when Fugol the Bold was lord. But I was too young to remember it.”

“Then you wouldn’t know how far it is.”

“Of course I do. ’Tis more than two days’ ride.”

There were signs that someone had recently gone toward Grantham, but without traveling to that holding, Mathieu could not be certain it had been Durand. “What say you?” he asked Raoul. “Does Durand intend to go all the way to Grantham?”

“’Twould appear so, baron.” But he seemed as uncertain as Mathieu.

Between the journey to London and the task of keeping Ingelwald and all its possessions secure, Mathieu could not spare any men to ride to Grantham. He would have to rely on the evidence of his eyes, which indicated that Durand was well and truly gone. Now that the gate was repaired, and with the walls secured, Ingelwald was safe at least from the likes of him.

Mathieu put his horn to his lips and blew it, hoping to gather all the knights who’d ridden out in pursuit of Durand. With luck, most were within range of the sound of the horn, and would waste no more time in their futile search. He turned back toward the hall, and soon Osric was slumped against Mathieu’s chest, fast asleep.

As Mathieu held him to keep him from falling, he admitted to a reluctant admiration for the boy. Osric had
never given up the fight for his father’s land. In his childish way, he still believed he had a chance to wrest Ingelwald from its Norman conquerors.

Osric’s small body went limp and Mathieu held him securely as the boy curved his dirty little hands ’round Mathieu’s gauntlets as though Mathieu could protect him from the harshness of the world. ’Twas difficult to believe this fragile boy was the same spirited one who’d sneaked into the Norman encampment to assassinate him, who’d set the storehouse afire in order to free the Saxon prisoners, who’d fought so fiercely for Ingelwald.

Mathieu tightened his hold around the lad to keep him secure, and rode on to Ingelwald.

Aelia pushed herself up from her chair and walked across the great hall to the door once again. Fitz Autier had not yet returned with Osric, and ’twas nearly dusk. Why did their search take so long?

What if there had been another attack like the one north of the waterfall? Would they manage to overcome their assailants this time?

“I think we should go out and look for them,” she said to Sir Gilbert.

The man acknowledged her plea with a snort and continued wrapping a clean bandage ’round a Norman’s head.

Frustrated by Gilbert’s response, Aelia left the hall and went in search of Sir Auvrai. Mayhap he would lead a party of men outside the walls to search for her brother and Fitz Autier. If anything happened to Osric, she did not know how she would survive it. She had already lost so much in the past few months.

She tamped down her worry for the moment and
walked toward the stable, where Auvrai and some of the other Normans were repairing the burned buildings. It seemed no one else was worried about Fitz Autier, or wondered why he had not yet returned. On the contrary, there was an atmosphere of merriment about the estate, with Normans as well as Saxons preparing a feast.

One of the village pigs had fallen into the river and drowned, and Auvrai had given his consent to roast it. ’Twas a ridiculous waste of meat. It should have been carefully butchered and preserved, but these Normans had seen fit to squander their unexpected windfall.

It should be of no concern to Aelia. ’Twas her fate to leave Ingelwald, and these Normans would be left here to starve.

“Aelia!”

“Freya, hello.” She took the younger woman’s hands, noting her red-rimmed eyes, her barely concealed grief for her father, Beorn. “Are you all right?”

“Aye. As well as can be for now. Thank you for coming to my father’s burial. And for last night…I know it eased my father’s passing to see you.”

“No need to thank me, Freya.”

“But we do, my lady. We see the terrible toll these last weeks have had upon you. With your own father gone, and Ingelwald taken from you…” She began to weep in earnest, and Aelia embraced her. “You are in our prayers.”

Aelia walked Freya home. She went into the shop and stayed with the carpenter’s wife and daughters for a time, remembering the man and the pleasure he’d taken in the music they made with his instruments. The visit was filled with poignant memories, pierced by grief. By the time Aelia left, ’twas almost fully dark and her sorrow lay heavily upon her, but she had no more tears to shed.

As she walked toward the hall, she saw Fitz Autier coming out of the stable, carrying a small, limp body in his arms. Her hand flew to her mouth when she saw the bright red hair and his arm hanging limp at his side. The worst had happened. Osric was dead!

This new grief, enormous and crushing, exploded through Aelia. Her legs went weak and her throat went numb. She could not speak.

“The boy fell asleep on the way back.”

She blinked her eyes and looked again as Fitz Autier approached. “A-asleep?”

“Aye,
demoiselle.
What is amiss? Has something happened?”

“No. Naught but your tardiness.”

He started walking and Aelia had to hurry to catch up. “Come with me and you can open the door when I carry him in.”

Relief poured through Aelia, but it was quickly replaced by anger. How dare he keep Osric out past dark, and leave her worrying hour after hour? “Seignior, you had no right—”

“Is that roasting pork I smell?”

“Where did you take Osric?”

“
Demoiselle,
I ask the questions here.”

“You will be lucky to receive any answers. You wore him to exhaustion!”

“He’s healthy enough.” He carried Osric effortlessly, allowing himself to be distracted at the sight of Saxons milling in the courtyard alongside Normans. “What are they about?”

“One of our pigs drowned,” Aelia replied, her anger unabated. “You gave permission to waste it on a feast.”

He said naught, but continued toward the servants’ quarters, where the prisoners were kept.

“Let him return to the hall for the night. I will keep him with me.”

“No.”

“But, seignior—”

He pushed past the guard, who opened the door to let him inside. She’d known perfectly well that Fitz Autier would not allow Osric to spend the night in her room, but that knowledge did not ease her frustration. What harm could there be in allowing her brother to stay with her? Especially after the long day she’d spent worrying about his welfare. They would be together all the way to London, would they not?

Angrily, she straightened her brother’s pallet, then watched as Fitz Autier lay Osric upon it. He surprised her when he drew a blanket over the boy and secured it near his neck before turning away, but his care did not appease her ire. Why did the man have to be so obstinate? She was defeated, was she not?

Aelia stormed out of the small jail and made her way to the hall, ignoring the gathering in the courtyard. Even so, she could not help but notice the torches that lit the entire perimeter of the yard and the trestle tables that had been assembled. Men and women carried platters of food to the center of it all, where Modig the Butcher carved the meat.

And Aelia could not deny that she was relieved not only for Osric’s safety, but Fitz Autier’s, too.

She kept walking until she was inside the hall and had climbed the stairs to the solitude of her room. ’Twas appalling to think that she cared what happened to Ingelwald’s conqueror. The man was an invader. A Norman raider, and nothing more.

Yet she could not forget how he’d helped her deal with Durand. Or the fact that he had not executed every
one of the Saxon men who would not swear fealty to him. He seemed unwilling to do any more damage.

Aelia lay down on her straw bed and closed her eyes, but the sound of music outside, and then a light tap at her door, brought her to her feet again.

’Twas Rowena, carrying a platter of food. “I thought you would be hungry, my lady.”