Margo Maguire (12 page)

Aelia was touched by the girl’s consideration, and in truth, she was famished. She must have forgotten to eat today, with her concern about Osric.

“Come and sit with me,” Aelia said.

The girl handed her the lamp upon the floor. “I—I did not want to stay out there. All those Normans…”

Aelia nodded as they sat together, sharing the food. Even though the man who’d attacked Rowena was gone, she could understand the girl’s uneasiness around Fitz Autier’s men.

“They are dancing,” Rowena said. “Our women with the Normans.”

“And swilling barrels of ale, no doubt.” Aelia went to the window and looked down at the courtyard. She pressed a hand against her chest as if she could hold in the ache as all of Ingelwald came to feast and to make peace with their enemies. It should have been Wallis down there, celebrating his victory over the Normans, she and Osric at his side.

Tears rolled down her cheeks as she listened to the music and watched the dancing commence. Women and men lined up facing one another, taking steps forward and back, to the rhythm of the music. Then they joined hands and moved in a circle, laughing and singing together as if there had been no warfare only days before.

Aelia knew ’twas for the best, but that did not make it hurt any less. When she could watch no more, she
started to turn away, but caught sight of Fitz Autier at the edge of the dancing circle. He held a flagon of ale in one hand, and his other arm was circled ’round Nelda’s shoulders.

“So, the bastard wants to celebrate?” she muttered.

“I beg your pardon, my lady?”

Aelia picked up the empty platter and walked to the door. “I’m hungrier than I thought. I believe I’ll go down and get some more.”

I
f Aelia was not coming down, Mathieu might just as well find a bed and get some rest before morning. ’Twould be a long, hard ride upon the morrow, and he was going to need all his faculties to keep track of the lady and her brother—not just to keep them under guard, but to keep them safe.

He wanted to suffer no more ambushes like the one that had nearly caught them on their excursion north of Ingelwald.

“
Demoiselle,
I am not interested,” he said to the young maid as he unwrapped her arm from his neck. He knew she did not understand his words, but he didn’t think she could fail to catch his meaning from his actions.

Unfortunately, she did not. She was a comely woman called Nelda, with flashing blue eyes and rich, dark hair. Her clothes were simple like those of Aelia, but Nelda wore the bodice pulled low, and laced it so tightly there was a good possibility she would fall out of it. And while the sight of such a feminine display should have enticed him, it did not.

Mathieu stepped away, but Nelda followed him, taking his arm and pulling it ’round her waist. She seemed to have tentacles as she leaned into him, sliding one hand ’round his neck and pressing her breasts against him while she pulled his head toward hers. “Not tonight,” he said, gently taking hold of her arms to push her away.

He looked up at that moment to see that Aelia had come down to the courtyard. She gave him a hard glance, then walked away.

With less care than before, he set Nelda aside and followed Aelia, but she stepped into the crowd of musicians and picked up a lyre. Surrounded by the others, she took no note of him, but appeared wholly engrossed in her music, so Mathieu could not approach her. Nor did he want to.

He owed her no explanations for his actions, and if he chose to dally with one of the housemaids, ’twas his concern alone. Though Nelda did not appeal to him, he could easily find another Saxon woman to ease his lust. He perused the dancers, many of whom were young and comely.

But none tempted him.

He poured another flagon of ale and walked ’round the circle of dancers to where his view of Aelia was unimpeded.

She began to sing, a song whose words were incomprehensible to his Norman ears. He caught the names of “Aethelstan” and “Edmund,” but the rest was lost to him.

Yet the Saxons in his midst stopped their dancing and gathered ’round to listen, as if spellbound, to Aelia’s voice. ’Twas pure and true, but Mathieu hardly noticed. He watched her elegant throat, the movements of her mouth, the thick lashes of her expressive eyes. Her
golden-red hair fell in loose waves across her shoulders, and when her skillful fingers moved over the strings of the lyre, Mathieu could only imagine what other talents they might have.

She continued singing, but changed languages and sang of Norse warriors and their heroic deeds. The song was a familiar one, sung often in Normandy, and Mathieu forced his eyes away from her comely form. He glanced ’round, looking for Nelda, the most likely maid to satisfy his needs. But she had moved on to one of his soldiers, and the two slipped away from the crowd.

Aelia finished her song and the dancing resumed. The atmosphere was convivial, with Saxons and Normans eating and drinking together.

Sir Auvrai’s decision to roast the pig had been a good one. They could have used brute force to subjugate the people of Ingelwald, but this banquet brought the Saxons to the Norman table under peaceful conditions. Soon the people would harvest their crops. The craftsmen would lay down their weapons and return to their shops, and life would go on as before.

For all but Aelia and her brother.

Mathieu trained his eyes upon her, gazing past the dancers and those who crowded nearby. Her body seemed to stiffen suddenly, and she turned slightly to glance in his direction.

A sharp frisson of heat burst through him when her eyes met his, and Mathieu took a quick step back. ’Twas a feeling similar to the odd prescience he’d felt when he’d first seen her standing high upon the palisade, just before her arrow had grazed his face.

But the sensation was more intense now. It raged across his chest and into his loins, knocking him off balance.

At the same time, the lyre slid from Aelia’s hands but
she managed to recover it before it fell. On her face was an expression of utter confusion, and she stood wavering for a moment before setting down her instrument and hastening away from the other musicians.

Mathieu went in pursuit of her.

Aelia felt dizzy. She slipped out of the crowded courtyard and made her way to the back entrance of the hall, near the bake house. Surely once she was away from Fitz Autier her heart would stop its pounding and her head would clear.

She pulled open the door leading to the kitchen but, before she could step inside, the door slammed closed in front of her. Without turning to look, she knew whose hand had pushed it shut. She felt his arm just above her shoulder, and she was unwilling to turn, reluctant to face him.

She held her breath as he slid his arm ’round her waist and pulled her against his body. He wore no hauberk but, even so, there was no softness to him. His breath was harsh in her ear, but he said no words. Aelia’s legs went limp and her heart raced like a poor trapped rabbit, while his touch sent rivers of sensation through her blood.

She stiffened, closing her eyes and clenching her teeth. Naught had changed. He was her enemy, and he was going to take her away from Ingelwald. She would not succumb to the seduction of his touch, to the heat of his lips upon her nape or the play of his fingers at her waist. She had to push away from him, to stop him from making her forget about his contemptible purpose.

But slowly he turned her, and her resolve faltered. He moved forward and she became vaguely aware of the
door against her back, of the cool night breeze blowing through her hair.

Mostly, she felt the heat of Fitz Autier’s mouth as it came down upon hers. Blood rushed from her head and pooled in her nether regions as he spread open her lips and plunged his tongue inside. He made a low sound that set Aelia’s blood afire. She kissed him in return, sliding her hands up his powerful arms, tipping her head back, plundering as he plundered.

His thumbs touched the underside of her breasts, and their tips pebbled and sparked with sensation.

Mayhap this
was
what her mother had foretold. Surely Aelia was not mistaken about the fierce attraction that pulsed between them. Was it possible the Norman was her one true mate?

No.

Aelia pushed away so abruptly she bumped her head against the door at her back, and Fitz Autier staggered. His eyes blazed with an intensity that matched the fire of his kiss, and Aelia shuddered with some ravenous emotion she could not name. She might have spoken if she could have found words….

Instead, she shoved past him and ran.

Mathieu needed a moment to gather his composure. He could not recall the last time he’d ever been so confounded by a woman. Or so aroused.

Mayhap ’twas the full moon that had addled his brain.

He strode away from the courtyard and the hall and any other place where he might possibly encounter Aelia, and soon found himself at the door of the carpenter’s shop. Candlelight flickered in the window, so Mathieu knew someone was about. He tapped lightly on the door.

’Twas Father Ambrosius who opened it. “Baron?” The priest lowered his brow. “’Tis an unexpected…honor…”

Unexpected and unwelcome, if Mathieu was not mistaken. He stepped inside anyway, and gave a nod to the carpenter’s widow and two daughters, who knelt at prayer in the room just beyond the workshop. They rose to their feet with the interruption, but stood fast and did not approach him.

“Tell them to rest easy, Father,” Mathieu said. “I have not come for any nefarious purpose.”

The priest turned and spoke to the women, while Mathieu glanced around the shop. What he wanted—no, needed—would be here upon a workbench or in a cupboard.

“My lord, is there some…are you here to collect the death tax?”

“
Heriot?
No. Well, yes.” The floor was swept clean and there was no clutter around the work areas. The carpenter’s tools had been neatly arranged, and many of them hung from hooks above the workbench. Illuminated by the priest’s light, Mathieu saw neat stacks of raw wood, hewn into long planks or left as rough blocks. He was certain there would be a piece suitable for carving.

“Ask the widow if there is a block of fruitwood here,” he said to the priest.

Father Ambrosius asked the question, and the woman nodded, then picked up a lamp and beckoned them to follow her outside. She went ’round to the back of the shop and pushed open the door of a wooden shed. Mathieu took the lamp from her and went inside.

The carpenter had stored finished pieces here, as well as raw materials. Mathieu found several suitable
blocks of fruitwood. He chose the pieces he wanted and turned to the widow.
“Heriot,”
he said.

The woman looked from Mathieu to the priest, frowning with puzzlement. The two spoke quietly together for a moment before the priest turned to Mathieu. “My lord, are we to understand that this—these pieces of wood—are to be the widow’s payment of
heriot?
”

Mathieu nodded. “Aye. Along with a carving knife and a gouge or two.”

They looked astonished, and rightly so. But this was what Mathieu needed most, and it was more valuable to him than any other payment the widow could make.

Wood carving would distract him from thoughts he should not be having about Aelia, and keep his mind and hands well occupied in his leisure time when they journeyed south. ’Twas a pastime he’d developed while passing the nerve-wracking hours before battle, or whiling away the time at court when too little was expected of him. He had developed some skill at the craft and intended to carve a betrothal gift for Lady Clarise. ’Twould keep his mind aptly focused upon the woman who was to be his bride.

The widow picked up a leather cloth, into which her husband’s tools had been safely rolled, and pressed it to her chest. Holding back her tears, she handed it to Mathieu.

“Tell her I offer my sympathies. Beorn was a very skilled man and Ingelwald is poorer for his loss.”

Mathieu left the carpenter’s shop and considered the carving he would make for Lady Clarise, and immediately felt calmer. Soon he would wed the beautiful Norman lady and would never think of Aelia again, never feel such an unreasonable lack of control with a woman again.

He stopped in the stable where the traveling packs had been made ready for the journey, and left the wood and tools there. Then he walked to the servants’ quarters, where the Saxon prisoners were being held.

“Robert,” he said to one of the guards, “fetch the boy called Halig. I’ll speak to him out here.”

A moment later, the boy who’d attacked him upon the stairs was hauled out of his small prison. He was sullen and unkempt, and was obviously not interested in speaking to Mathieu.

“Your lady travels to London upon the morrow,” he said to the boy. “I will need someone whose task is to protect her upon the road.”

“What of Normans? Can they not?”

“Aye. But you’ve shown yourself particularly loyal to the lady. I would trust you to perform the duty better than most.”

Halig’s throat moved as he swallowed thickly. Clearly, ’twas an impossible task Mathieu had asked of him—to take Aelia to her fate in London, which would allow him to be close to the lady, and possibly ensure her safety when they reached their destination.

Mathieu intended to see to that himself, but an extra sword, one that was devoted primarily to Aelia’s well-being on the road, was all but necessary. Since he could spare only eight Norman knights for the journey, he had decided to see if Halig would be a suitable guard for the lady.

The lad gave a curt nod.

“I will accept your vow of fealty,” Mathieu stated.

“No.”

“It is what I require, boy. If you cannot give your word to be loyal to me and follow my orders, then you
will remain imprisoned here until I decide what to do with you. Do you understand me?”

A myriad of emotions crossed the lad’s face, but Mathieu had no doubt that he would kneel to him. His loyalty to Aelia ran too deep to evade this duty.

Aelia was awake long before dawn. She sat upon the floor of her chamber, leaning against the wall, watching Rowena sleep. The girl did not feel safe anywhere, even with her assailant gone, so Aelia had given the maid her bed. ’Twas not as though she could sleep, anyway.

She was leaving Ingelwald today.

A lump in Aelia’s throat prevented her from swallowing back her tears. She let them flow until her throat was raw and her head pounded, then wiped the moisture from her face and went to the window.

The remnants of the Norman’s feast were visible below, as well as a number of Fitz Autier’s warriors, who were slumbering upon the benches. A few of Ingelwald’s maids slept alongside them.

She took one last look ’round the room where she’d slept every night of her twenty years, and remembered her days as a child here. Her mother used to come to this room and sit beside her, telling her the tales of Saxon heroes. Aelia enjoyed the stories of her mother’s younger days, when she’d fallen in love with her husband.

Though Wallis had been chosen for Elena, when she’d first seen him she’d felt a shattering awareness of him, with the bone-deep knowledge that she’d met her one true mate.

Aelia was sure she herself had not yet experienced such a sensation, if she ever would. She had not felt it
when she’d first met Selwyn, nor any other Saxon warrior. Mayhap ’twas her fate never to know the feeling her mother described. Surely ’twas not the odd awareness engendered by the sight of Fitz Autier. She had to remind herself that all she felt on sight of her conqueror and captor was revulsion.

The day dawned cool and bright as Aelia descended the stone stairs and walked to the gate the Normans had destroyed, then repaired. ’Twas open, but guarded, though the knights said naught as she passed through to the section of Ingelwald that lay outside the walls.