Margo Maguire (15 page)

“There are eight of us, Durand,” he shouted. “Do you hope to defeat us all?”

“Your count is off,
bastard!
”

’Twas Durand? The man who had violated Rowena?

“Do something!” Aelia cried.

“He can deal with this rogue, Lady Aelia,” said Gerrard.

“But—”

Osric insinuated himself between Aelia and Halig, just as Fitz Autier took the offensive, holding his broadsword with both hands and hacking at the other man. The assailant backed up several paces, but managed to get in a blow with the broad side of his blade, catching Fitz Autier on his shoulder, knocking his sword from his hands.

Even then, Fitz Autier did not yield, nor did any of his men move in to assist him. Aelia cried out, but could do naught but stand by, watching silently while he dodged the warrior’s thrusts, moving quickly and agilely.

“I’ll beat you without a weapon, Durand!” he taunted, pulling away from another thrust of the sword. “You’re no man, but a coward, a molester of young girls. Come on.”

“Why does he mock him?” Aelia cried in a harsh whisper, twisting the wool of her skirt in her hands. “’Twill only anger him and make him the more vicious.”

“Worry not, my lady,” said Gerrard.

“Don’t be an ass, Aelia,” said Osric. “Fitz Autier is the superior warrior.”

Aelia hardly heard her brother’s insult. Her mouth was as dry as sand and her heart pounded as she watched the battle continue. Fitz Autier moved well, his powerful body dodging every thrust of the blade, but he could not retreat indefinitely. Durand, if that’s who it was, would soon make a killing stab.

“What if there are others out there? What if—”

“Raoul and the rest of our men are making sure there are no others. All will be well, Lady Aelia.” Gerrard took Osric by the chin and turned the boy to face him. “As for you, boy, you will speak with respect to your elders, particularly your lady sister.”

Ignoring the rain and the rough terrain, Aelia lifted her skirts and ran to a place where she was better able to watch. It seemed an interminable length of time that Fitz Autier parried the warrior’s thrusts, dodging blow after blow. Breathing heavily, the two men grunted with exertion, but neither yielded, and Aelia thought of all Fitz Autier’s injuries—the gash in his side, the cut on his face, the countless other wounds she’d seen when he’d climbed out of the pool behind the waterfall. She swallowed the lump in her throat, pressing one hand against her breast and praying silently that he would somehow prevail.

Fitz Autier made a sudden move that knocked his opponent to the ground. He lunged and picked up his sword as Durand managed to push himself to his knees and jab once again.

“On your feet, Durand!” Fitz Autier shouted. “I will kill you fairly!”

“Not likely,
bastard!
”

He started slashing, but Fitz Autier parried skillfully,
then turned to the offensive. ’Twas his own thrusts and jabs that caused Durand to move backward, awkwardly avoiding the obstacles that would trip him. The knight gave one mighty swing of his sword meant to spike Fitz Autier, but ’twas the baron who dealt the fatal blow, finding Durand’s vulnerable spot and spearing him through.

All was silent in the woods for a moment as Fitz Autier stood over Durand’s body, holding his sword at his side. His men came to him from their positions in the woods. “He did some damage to Osbern and Hugh,” said Raoul, though it sounded to Aelia as though he were speaking through a long, deep tunnel. “But they’ll live.”

“There were no others,” said Sir Guatier, his voice also strangely distant. “Durand came alone.”

“Catch her!” she heard Raoul say, just as everything went black.

Mathieu moved quickly, taking Aelia from Halig, who had managed to catch her before she hit the ground. Mathieu did not think about why ’twas so important that he be the one to carry her out of the woods, but took her to the campsite and lowered her into the tent, out of the rain.

“I’ll need a water skin,” he said. “And a clean cloth.”

“She’ll be all right,” said Osric.

“Which will not be the same for you unless you get to your tent with Raoul,” Mathieu said. “Now.”

“You bested him, even without your sword!”

“No…he disarmed me, but I managed to hold out until I could retrieve my sword.”

“But—”

“Go.”

The boy grumbled, but left promptly, as did the rest of the men, all but Halig.

“I would learn, seignior…. I wish to train and become a knight…like you.”

Mathieu took no pride in the way he’d fought. He’d nearly allowed his fatigue to get the better of him. Durand should never have gotten so close. “Aye,” he said wearily. “When we return to Ingelwald, I’ll see that you are given the chance.”

He checked on Hugh and Osbern, both of whom had sustained injuries to their heads. It seemed that Durand had sneaked up and attacked each of them from behind, delivering a blow to the skull that could have killed them. Fortunately, both men survived, but ’twas possible they would be unable to ride upon the morrow.

Disgusted with the night’s turn of events, Mathieu pulled off his hauberk, then crawled into the tent and closed the flap. All day, he’d been plagued with a feeling of being watched. He should have thought of Durand, and because he had not anticipated an attack from the disgruntled knight, Hugh and Osbern had paid dearly for his oversight.

He poured water on a clean cloth and wiped Aelia’s face with it. She made a quiet sound and turned her head away.

“Aelia.” He washed her face again to rouse her. Her clothes were soaked through. ’Twas certain she could not spend the night this way.

“Uh…cold.”

“Aye, it is. Wake up.”

She opened her eyes. “What happened?”

“You fainted.”

She sat up abruptly and would have fallen to the
ground again had Mathieu not caught her shoulders and lowered her gently. “I did not faint.”

“All right, you didn’t faint.” He tossed the rag into a corner and lay upon his own pelt, as far from her as possible. ’Twas absurd to think she’d been concerned for his well-being, anyway. She could barely tolerate him.

They had hardly spoken to each other in the four days since they’d left Ingelwald—not at all since he’d pulled her brother from the runaway gelding’s back.

“Was it Durand?”

“Aye. I sensed him following us all day.”

“You knew it was Durand?”

He shook his head. “Someone. One man, not a group.”

She lay quietly for a while, but he soon felt her shivering, and heard her teeth begin to chatter. “Durand killed my father.”

“Aye.” He turned and looked at her in the faint light of the fire. Though he could not see her well, he knew every one of her features, from her gently arched brows, to the hint of a cleft in her chin. He knew that her mouth tasted of sweet berries and her skin was taut and sleek.

Arousal, hard and unmerciful, hit him.

“You knew?”

“I’d heard talk. Was that why you fainted? Because you realized ’twas Durand who killed Wallis?”

“I’ve never fainted.”

“Then mayhap you were worried about me.”

“Certainly not. I do not care what happens to a Frenchwoman’s husband.”

B
ut Aelia did. She could not deny it had been terrifying to watch Fitz Autier face Durand without a sword. What she felt had naught to do with gratitude for saving Osric’s life, or for killing Durand. ’Twas a frightening magnetism that drew her to Mathieu Fitz Autier, and it had more to do with his touch, his kiss.

Aelia realized she was shivering, and resisted the urge to draw closer to his warmth. She knew his touch would heat her icy skin, but she was no harlot. Fitz Autier not only belonged to another, he was still Aelia’s enemy. The only reason he’d come into the tent with her was to assure that she did not try to sneak away, to take Osric and run from him.

She gathered her blanket around her and tried to stop shaking.

“Thank you for avenging my f-father’s death tonight, seignior,” she said. “My debt to you g-grows.”

It would have been better to make some gross insult, or even walk away from him. She would have left the tent to sleep outside if he’d let her, but she knew he
would not. He would bind her wrists and ankles and tie her to him if she tried to leave him.

But he was too close. His shoulders occupied an inordinate amount of space, and Aelia remembered all too well how strong and solid his chest felt when she leaned against him on horseback, and the way his muscular arms encircled her as they rode.

But he was her adversary. She should feel no comfort in his presence.

Yet when he turned to her, bringing his face much too close to hers, Aelia could not back away. There was no room within the tent for retreat, nor did she want to, especially when he cupped her cheek with his hand and touched his lips to hers.

Aelia tried to remember why this was impossible, but she could not think coherently, not when his lips moved over hers. She sighed and he deepened the kiss, parting her lips and surging inside. He seduced her mouth with his tongue and teeth as he pulled out the laces that held her kirtle closed, then spread the bodice.

Aelia melted when he uttered a low growl and cupped her breast through the thin linen of her chemise. His lips trailed a path of fire down her neck and to her chest, and when his tongue touched one sensitive nipple, her breath caught.

Whatever she’d felt on that first night with him was naught compared to this. With one move, he took hold of the chemise and tore it away, so that she was completely bared to him. She felt the roughness of his whiskers upon her tender skin, and the pull of his mouth upon her breast. Aelia arched her back and slid her hands through Fitz Autier’s hair, holding his head in place.

He licked and sucked one nipple while he teased and tortured the other with his fingers. She wanted him
to ease the tension that stretched from her breasts to her womb, to touch her as no man had ever done before.

Selwyn would never have been able to make her blood burn this way. She had never had the desire to kiss him, to slide her hands across his back or touch his bare skin. Only this Norman had the power to make her forget herself.

But not for long. She pushed him away and sat up abruptly, fumbling with the edges of her torn chemise, trying to cover her body.

Fitz Autier thrust himself up to his knees, and in the dim light, Aelia saw him dig his fingers through his hair. “Good Christ, I must be out of my mind,” he said.

He stayed crouched in the small space for a moment, then shoved the flap aside and started to leave. Instead, he turned and handed her his blanket. A moment later, he was gone.

Without thinking, she pulled Fitz Autier’s blanket over her shoulders and lay down, feeling numb both in body and in mind. She shivered with cold, only this time the chill was inside her.

By morning, the rain had abated, but the mood in camp was somber. Durand’s vicious blow to Sir Osbern’s head made him too ill to travel.

“That rogue, Durand, must have cracked Osbern’s skull,” said Gerrard. “At least Hugh seems all right.”

“Osbern will be, too,” replied Raoul. “I’ve seen men with worse wounds who recovered after a few days.”

Aelia could not allow herself to care what happened to any of these Normans. She and Osric were their prisoners, no matter how kindly they treated her.

“Where is my brother?” she asked the two knights.

“With the baron.”

“Why?” She could not imagine what Osric had done now. “What is amiss?”

“I would not worry about him,” said Raoul. He picked up a large canvas satchel and handed it to her. “The baron left this for you.”

She took it, but was more concerned about Osric, gone away somewhere with Fitz Autier, than she was about the contents of the pack. “Where did Fitz Autier take my brother?”

“To the horses,” Raoul said. “I believe the baron is inspecting—”

Aelia did not wait to hear the rest. Clearly, Osric was in trouble again, and ’twas up to her to protect him. She hurried away toward the edge of camp, where they’d strung the horses together. But neither Osric nor Fitz Autier were there. Nor were the horses.

She moved quickly through the trees until she came to a fallow field, and came to a dead stop at the sight before her.

The horses had been hobbled and left to wander in the field to graze. Standing out in the open were Osric and Fitz Autier, facing one another with swords crossed.

Aelia’s heart dropped to her knees until she heard Fitz Autier’s words.

“No, little Saxon,” he said. “You should have taken advantage there and thrust. Try it again.”

Aelia was certain her eyes deceived her. ’Twas not possible that Fitz Autier was teaching swordsmanship to Osric. Yet her eyes did not lie.

Bewildered, she watched Fitz Autier parry each of Osric’s thrusts, then demonstrate better techniques for maiming his enemy. “If he wears armor and helm, you must use your speed, for that is your strength while you are still small.”

Aelia lowered herself upon a broken branch at the edge of the wood, watching unobserved, as Fitz Autier taught Osric the rudiments of battle. They laughed together, and at one point, Fitz Autier even ruffled Osric’s red hair.

Aelia took hold of the dead wood underneath her and held on while her world shifted. Her brother could not possibly have made an ally of Fitz Autier. He’d been at odds with the Normans, especially their leader, ever since Ingelwald had been conquered. The baron had been right about Osric. He had behaved rashly, undisciplined and heedless of the consequences of his actions.

Was it possible that Fitz Autier had forgiven him all that—and that Osric was actually taking a lesson from the Norman?

No. Aelia’s heart sank when she realized ’twas more likely Osric had figured out how to gain Fitz Autier’s trust. That way, he could get his hands on a weapon and—

Aelia jumped to her feet as Fitz Autier knocked Osric to the ground. But rather than lashing out in anger, her brother merely laughed. Their combat was all in fun.

“You’ll never best me in this manner, little Saxon,” Fitz Autier said. The Norman’s tone was different, as was the expression on his face. He looked younger, and more relaxed, than Aelia had ever seen him.

“I wager I’ll win the next match, Norman!”

“You have nothing of value to wager, little Saxon.”

“Aye, I do—a good word for you with my sister!”

Osric’s statement took Aelia’s breath away. She watched Fitz Autier lower his hand to Osric and help him up as his expression changed from jovial and insouciant to serious. “What makes you think I want your sister’s favor?”

“Ha! Though I might not be fully grown, I’ve seen how you look at her.”

Fitz Autier walked away and bent down to retrieve Osric’s sword. Aelia waited for him to deny Osric’s words, but he said naught about it as he handed the weapon to the boy. “And what would be your prize if you won?”

“Aelia’s dagger,” Osric said without hesitation. “I would return it to her.”

“Agreed.”

She covered her mouth with her hand. Raw emotion welled within her chest—love for her brother, confusion over what she felt for Fitz Autier. He was her enemy, yet he’d protected her, saved her life. What he made her feel was beyond her comprehension, and she was afraid to examine it too closely. She feared it meant she felt something other than hatred for the Norman.

Fitz Autier waited for Osric to make the first slash, but dodged the blow and delivered one of his own. Aelia felt no fear for her brother; ’twas obvious that the baron used a mere fraction of his strength as he cut and jabbed at Osric. He gave instructions to the boy as they parried, and Aelia sensed an unusual connection between them.

But she did not have a chance to ponder that thought as a ragged group of travelers came into sight at the far edge of the field. There was only one man among them, along with two women and three children. As they came closer, Aelia could see that one of the women carried an infant, too.

Fitz Autier pushed Osric behind him as he took a stance indicating he was ready for battle. Aelia noticed then that he had his horn slung over his shoulder, so he could call for help if ’twas needed, but he said something quietly to Osric, then addressed the intruders.

They seemed not to understand him.

Aelia rose to her feet as they came closer. Fitz Autier addressed them again, but they replied in English. They were Saxons. Unarmed, filthy and weary, they were as haggard and woebegone as anyone Aelia had ever seen. The children’s eyes were hollow and dull, and none of them spoke.

Fitz Autier bent slightly to Osric again, though he never took his eyes from the group of Saxons as he told the boy what to say.

“Who are you?” Osric asked them.

“I am Cuthbert of Bruenwald,” the man replied. “Our fields were burned, our cottage destroyed, my shop overrun. We have no place… My children are starving.” Warily, the Saxon watched Fitz Autier as he spoke, though he had to know his words would not be understood by the warrior who stood with his sword drawn before him. “This is my wife, Odelia, my sister, Wilda.”

Osric translated.

“He had a shop? What is his trade?”

“I am a woodworker,” he replied.

“Tell him to come with us to camp,” Fitz Autier said. “Say they are welcome to a meal.”

Osric followed Fitz Autier’s instructions, and the group fell into step behind the Norman leader.

Mathieu let Osric lead the way, and followed behind the beggarly Saxons. It did not surprise him to see Aelia awaiting them in the woods, but the unmerciful punch of arousal that hit him at the sight of her was unprecedented. He knew her taste and the feel of her breast in his hand.

And he wanted more.

She did not meet his eyes, and the hint of a blush col
ored her cheeks when the group joined her. Yet she had no reason to feel embarrassed. She had been right to stop his advances the night before.

She would never know how difficult it had been for him to leave her there in the tent, so beautiful and so aroused. But he was beyond the point of slaking his lust with her, only to hand her over to King William to do with her as he pleased.

Even the boy had become something more than just a captive. He was a bright lad, and anxious to learn all that Mathieu could teach him. Mathieu closed his hands into fists and walked behind the Saxons, keeping his eyes averted from Aelia’s comely form as she joined the group and began conversing with them. He was damned if he would allow his dealings with this Saxon beauty to cloud his judgment—or let whispers of an alliance with Aelia of Ingelwald to reach the king’s ears, or Simon de Vilot’s.

“Cuthbert wants to know if he can travel with us,” Osric said. “He doubts he can keep his family safe much longer.”

“Ask him where he is headed.”

“North,” Aelia said, speaking directly to Mathieu for the first time. “They hoped to find a Saxon holding that is safe from Normans.” She held the Saxon infant close to her breast, caressing its head, murmuring soft words. With its silvery-blond curls, it might have been mistaken for Aelia’s own child, the one she would have in a year or two, after King William married her to a Norman knight.

Mathieu moved ahead of her and led them into camp. Osbern still lay near the fire, conscious, but in pain. The gash on the back of his head needed sewing, but they had not brought any thread or needles. Instead, they’d
wrapped a cloth ’round his head and bade him to lie quietly by the fire.

Mathieu did not know how long ’twould take before the man stopped retching every time he moved. His injury was going to hold them there indefinitely, but Mathieu was suddenly impatient to be traveling again. The sooner he got Aelia to London, the better.

After a short conversation with one of the Saxon women, Aelia turned to Mathieu. “Wilda was a healer in their village. I told her what happened to Sir Osbern, and she says she can make a potion to ease his malaise.”

Mathieu stopped pacing. “Do you know of such potions?”

“Aye,” Aelia said. “A decoction of tree bark is said to ease pain.”

Mathieu nodded at the woman, but spoke to Aelia. “See that she does him no harm. Guatier, bring your bow and come with me.” He picked up Osbern’s bow and stalked out of camp, leaving Raoul in charge.

’Twas unlikely there would be a better time to hunt, and Mathieu intended to take advantage of it. He would decide later what was to be done about Osbern if he was not ready to travel upon the morrow.

He and Guatier collected their horses, saddled them and rode far afield until they found a likely spot to scare up a wild pig or some other game. They hobbled the horses, slung their bows over their shoulders and found a tree to climb and wait for their prey.

They settled themselves upon branches that were high enough to keep them away from danger, yet provided a good perch from which to shoot. Mathieu hoped it would take all day. He did not want to return to camp, where Aelia would be mothering the Saxon child.

Mathieu gazed out at the woods and tried to banish
Aelia from his mind. He did not want to think about her, or the way he’d left her the previous night. He did not want to think about turning her over to the king.

Wilda seemed to be a healer of some skill, Aelia thought. Only an hour after Osbern had drunk the woman’s potion, he was able to sit up without pain, though he did not do much else. Aelia bathed his head with cool cloths, and gave him sips of water as he recovered. The rest of their Norman guards took turns sleeping or playing at dice, while at least one of them remained alert and on watch. Halig hovered nearby, but he was not trustful of the other Saxons, and so he remained guarded.