Margo Maguire (4 page)

She was Norman. And Edric knew from experience that, in spite of their considerable beauty, they were coldhearted and icy limbed.

Edric picked up the trail of a wild pig and followed it past the point where he knew his men were encamped. He walked beside the riverbank as it curved to the south, and came to a place where the bank turned rocky, and the terrain on the far side of the water rose up to craggy cliffs. The trees grew thick near the water, but Edric had no trouble seeing the Norman wench.

The shreds of her chemise seemed to flow from her shoulders, molding to her breasts, her nipples puckering the damp fabric. Her chest rose and fell with rapid breaths and the only color in her face was in her eyes. The boar he’d been tracking stood
only ten paces from her, snorting and pawing the ground.

In silence, Edric removed an arrow from his quiver, nocked it into the bow, took aim, and shot.

Kate gave a small cry when the pig fell and she sank to the ground, as if her muscles would not hold her up. The boar was not yet dead, so Edric moved in for the kill, as wary of the beast as he was of the woman.

He killed the pig with one stab of his sword, then looked at Kate. She’d been kneeling before, but sat on the ground now, with her arms wrapped about her. Tears filled her dark eyes and violent shudders racked her body.

Edric took a deep breath and tore his gaze from her vulnerable form. Her blanket-shawl must be nearby.

When he found it neatly folded on a tree stump, he picked it up and took it to her. She seemed not to notice him, so he shook it open and draped it ’round her shoulders.

He did not remove his hands, but rubbed her arms and shoulders in an attempt to warm her. “You are safe now,” he said, and silently cursed himself for bothering.

Her body quaked with one muffled sob and he could do naught but crouch down and pull her into his arms. ’Twas only to give comfort to one
who’d been frightened beyond her endurance, but when she leaned into his embrace and pressed her face to his chest, it became something more. ’Twas that soft, feminine need that he’d sorely missed since exchanging vows with Cecily, and Edric felt his body stir with awareness. He clamped his jaws together and forced himself to ignore the surge of lust that tore through his veins, but arousal hit him like a jagged finger of lightning.

’Twas impossible.

Hastily, he backed away. He stood and left the Norman where she sat, and composed himself before returning to the encampment. Giving orders for his men to go and collect the boar, he remained in camp and helped to get a few more cook fires started. They would feast tonight, and there would be a healing broth for Bryce to sip.

And Edric would forget the fierce lust roused by Ferguson’s captive.

Now Kathryn knew. She’d felt the power and heat of Lord Edric’s strong arms and knew what it was that she’d craved these past few years. A man’s touch. The caress of a husband.

She’d seen Edric’s prowess in battle, and now at the hunt. He’d saved her virtue and her life, and had rescued her yet again tonight. She closed her
eyes and steadied herself. It could only be fear that made her react to the Saxon, for he did not appeal to her. Not really.

Yet the heat of his body had sent a flood of sensation coursing through her.
This
was what she’d hoped to feel at Geoffroi’s touch…and what was lacking when he had. Kathryn had never thought ’twould be a bearded, long-haired ruffian who elicited such feelings.

She returned to the camp and approached the wagon where Sir Drogan sat with Bryce. On the other side of camp, Lord Edric threw a few branches into a fire circle, then crouched down and nursed it to life. Kathryn turned her eyes away. She could not possibly feel an attraction for the rude and coarse Saxon. He was nothing like the refined and courteous Normans who’d come to Kettwyck at her father’s invitation, barbered, clean-shaven men like Geoffroi. Edric of Braxton Fell was certainly no candidate for matrimony.

She looked at the young man in the wagon and turned to Drogan. “How is Lord Bryce?”

Drogan shrugged, his expression fraught with worry.

Kathryn frowned with concern. “Will Lora be able to help him?”

The warrior sighed. “I hope so, lass. She is a
gifted woman.” He lowered a cup of water to Bryce’s lips and urged him to drink. “I understand you met with Master Pig near the river.”

Kathryn nodded. “I thought ’twould be the end of me, but Lord Edric came along. He saved me yet again.”

Drogan nodded. “The lad has a rare talent for being where he’s needed.”

Kathryn thanked God for it, if not for whatever quality he possessed that drew her to him.

“The day’s kill will be welcome at Braxton Fell,” said Drogan. “Our larders are in pitiful form these days.”

“Is it not harvesttime, Sir Drogan?” Kathryn asked. Summer had waned and Kathryn felt the chill of autumn in the air.

“’Twould be so, had the Fergusons not harried our fields when they attacked us two summers ago.”

Kathryn did not understand. “Two years is a long time, is it not?”

“You’ve not much experience of war, have you, lass?”

She shook her head. “I only came from Normandy a few weeks ago.”

“The Scots burned our fields and woodlands, and the land has not yet recovered. Very little will
grow in the sooty ground. They killed livestock, scattered our sheep…”

“’Twas not…Normans?”

“No, lass. You Normans are…allies. Now.”

Kathryn suspected from his tone that he was not being entirely candid. She knew little of politics, but the English people could hardly approve of their Norman conquerors. In truth, of all the Saxons with whom she traveled, only Sir Drogan showed her the least kindness. The others simply tolerated her. Drogan was the only one who spoke to her, who saw to her needs. Looking ’round at these warriors with their swords and axes ready, Kathryn remembered hearing terrible tales of Saxons and their barbaric customs. She knew she must be wary until she found a way to get to Evesham Bridge.

She glanced in Edric’s direction and saw him setting up a wood frame over the fire—a spit for cooking the meat. He betrayed no emotion as he worked, nor did he look to see if she’d returned to camp. ’Twas as if what had transpired between them at the river had not even occurred. Yet Kathryn could still feel the heat and strength of his hands upon her arms and shoulders.

“Sir Drogan—”

“I am not ‘sir,’” he said. “Simply Drogan, though some call me Drogan the White. Saxon warriors
are not the same as your Norman knights. I am a huscarl in Edric’s house and have been ever since I could wield a sword.”

“Forgive me,” Kathryn replied. “Then is it also wrong to say ‘Lord’ Edric?”

Drogan smiled. “Ah, no, lass. By your king’s grace, he is eorl of all these lands, as his wife is lady.”

“His wife?”

“Aye. Lady Cecily.”

P
reoccupied with worry for his brother, and painfully lustful thoughts about the Norman woman, Edric entered the village and rode into the narrow lane leading to the gates of his fortress at Braxton Fell. He’d been ordered by William to build the stone-and-timber keep that was now his residence, but his father’s hall still remained on the grounds of the ancient Saxon settlement. The new keep was a formidable structure, much better suited to a man of Edric’s standing, with its three levels, its tower and crenellated battlements. The banner of his ancient house hung
from the highest tower, proof indeed of his mastery here.

A high wall surrounded a goodly portion of the village, but much of it had been left outside the tall barricade. As impressive as it was, the wall had done little to protect Braxton Fell from the Fergusons’ raid two years before, when Edric and Bryce had been required to join William’s army in York, and the damned Scots had come burning and ravaging their lands.

The people of Braxton Fell had come much too close to famine last year, and many would have starved had Cecily’s dowry not included barrels of grain, stores of beans and cabbage, leeks, and a hundred hens for laying. This year, Edric’s father-in-law had refused to give any assistance. Oswin the steward had read Lord Gui’s letter stoically, his voice level and emotionless, as though the Norman’s decision to withhold his aid would not result in hardship at Braxton Fell.

Edric refused to beg. If Gui had suddenly decided to hoard his wealth, ’twas not only the Saxons of Braxton Fell who would suffer. The accursed Norman’s own daughter would starve.

Leading his riders to the keep, Edric did not bother to glance up to the window of his wife’s bedchamber where she’d been confined for the last weeks of her pregnancy. Cecily would not
welcome him home, nor would she show any concern for Bryce. She would take her old nursemaid, Berta, and return to her father’s lands at once if her sire would take her. But Lord Gui had refused her latest plea, just as he’d refused every one before that.

If Cecily gave Edric a son, he would have his heir and there would be amity between Braxton Fell and the Norman estates
without
his spoiled wife. She could spend her days upon her knees at the nunnery, praying for temperance and humility.

Grooms rushed to take Edric’s reins while Drogan helped the Norman woman to dismount. The men gathered ’round Bryce’s wagon, more than willing to carry the young lord into the keep, but Edric called for a litter.

Unreasonably annoyed by the attention Drogan was giving Kate, Edric sent his huscarl to fetch the steward. He and every man in the courtyard knew Bryce had been injured only because of the pathetic Frenchwoman who could not seem to stay out of trouble.

Now she was about to cause him no end of grief—once Cecily saw her.

Edric’s lady wife would no doubt assume he had risked all just for a taste of the comely hostage, for Cecily was forever accusing him of sexual incontinence, when he’d been painfully faithful to her.
Carefully, he schooled his expression, taking care not to show any of the lust that had possessed him since laying eyes upon the Norman wench.

All seemed strangely quiet in the courtyard, but Oswin pushed through the crowd of warriors and caught up to Edric before Drogan had a chance to go in search of him. Edric cleared his mind of the plague of Norman women and turned his attention to Oswin.

“My lord.” The steward’s voice was shaky and he sounded much older than his years. When he looked into the wagon, his complexion turned gray, obviously reminded of the time his own sons had been carried home dead, both of them, in battle against the Normans. “Dear God. How…? Not Bryce.”

“He lives,” said Edric. “But his wound is grave. We’ll need Lora to tend him.”

Servants brought the litter and the men transferred Bryce to it. With care, they took him from the wagon and carried him into the great hall.

Edric followed, not stopping as he spoke to the steward. “We came upon the Fergusons and engaged them. I killed Léod, but Robert wounded Bryce, then took to the hills with the rest of their cursed kin.” He could still see the site of battle in his mind, as clear as if he still stood upon it, facing Léod and Robert and the rest of their
murderous clan. He could almost hear Kate’s distracting screams.

He reminded himself that this was the most important thing to remember about her—not the flare of female interest he saw on the rare occasions when he caught her glance, nor the warm feminine softness of her body. She was a Norman. And in his experience, they were a people with no conscience, no soul.

“My lord…” said the steward, his manner strangely uncertain for a man who’d served for many years as advisor to Lord Aidan, Edric’s father.

“Send someone to fetch Lora. And get the priest, too,” Edric said, even though he had no desire to face the disagreeable old cleric. Father Algar was as likely to blame this misfortune upon what he perceived as Edric’s and Bryce’s sinful ways as he was to condemn the damned Scot who’d actually cut Bryce down. Yet he kept the old man in his service since he’d been here as long as Edric could remember. Algar generally kept to his tasks, peddling religion as was his wont, and keeping his nose out of the affairs of Edric’s estates.

Edric entered the hall and climbed the steps, barely aware of anything but Bryce’s plight and the somber gray of the day, yet an unfamiliar, discordant cry managed to pierce through his haze
of worry. ’Twas the mewling of some small animal, caught in a trap.

“My lord,” said Oswin. “I must speak to you before—”

“What the…” Dread pooled in Edric’s belly when he realized the sound came from Cecily’s bedchamber. He’d heard her vicious cries many times before, but this was different. Trusting that his men would see to Bryce, Edric took the stairs two at a time until he reached the gallery on the second floor. Cecily’s room was at the far end, and Edric reached it quickly, pushing open the door.

’Twas Berta, Cecily’s old Norman nursemaid, keening loudly as she crouched over the bed. She wore a voluminous black kirtle and hood that shielded all but her hands and face from his gaze. She blocked Edric’s view of the bed as well, and his wife in it.

The flame-haired midwife, Lora, stood in front of the old woman, speaking quietly as she tried to get ’round her to the bed. Edric narrowed his eyes as he turned slightly and spoke to the steward, who’d followed him. “Oswin?”

The steward cleared his throat. “Bryce’s injury is not the only traged—”

The old woman’s shrill cries filled the chamber once again. She seemed unaware of Edric’s presence, but fully occupied with her own wrenching
grief, ignoring Lora’s attempt to draw her away.

“My lord,” said the steward, “Berta will not leave her mistress. Lora and I have done all but remove her bodily—”

The old woman’s cries intensified, suddenly sounding as though her voice split in two. A crowd of servants began to gather in the gallery outside the room, but Drogan managed to push his way through them to come inside. Their Norman captive followed close behind, her doe’s eyes large and round and troubled.

“My lord…” said Oswin.

“Speak up, Oswin,” Edric said roughly. “What is amiss here?”

Berta did not move away from the bed, guarding her charge as though Satan himself were trying to steal her mistress away. Lora continued to cajole her, using an awkward mixture of Norman French and English, trying every word she could find to coax the old woman away from the bed.

Oswin touched Edric’s arm and spoke in a hushed tone. “Lady Cecily’s labor began just after you went off to pursue the Scots. Lora told us there was bleeding…exhaustion. Your lady wife delivered her child last night—midnight.”

Edric narrowed his eyes. Too much was happening and Cecily was ominously quiet. “What are you saying, Oswin?”

He felt Drogan’s hand upon his shoulder, a consoling gesture between comrades, but he felt no comfort. In spite of all that was wrong between him and Cecily, he’d had expectations for their child. Hopes. To have lost the bairn in childbirth…

Berta’s lamentations intensified, making his temples throb painfully. He wished for a few brief moments of privacy to compose himself, but Lora seemed unable to quiet the woman.

“Do whatever is necessary to get her away from here, and leave me with my wife,” he said to Drogan.

“Aye, my lord.”

Firmly, but with care, Drogan placed his hands upon the old woman’s shoulders and pulled her up from her crouch. Once the bed was visible, Edric’s eyes locked on Cecily’s quiescent form. His beautiful wife lay in the center of the bed, devoid of color and unnaturally still. His throat went dry and his faculties suddenly failed him, making him speechless. Though there had been no affection between them, she was his wife…the woman to whom he’d pledged his loyalty and his life. And she was…gone.

An odd sense of unreality assailed him. This could not be happening…No matter what their differences, Edric would never have wished Cecily dead.

There was movement beside her, something squirming under the linen sheeting. Edric approached warily, afraid to hope, closing the distance between himself and the bed.

“You!” Berta cried, raising one gnarled hand to point an accusing finger at him. She spoke, even as a tortured mewling sound came from the bed. “
You
are responsible for my poor Cecily’s death! She wanted naught to do with—”

“Berta,” said Drogan, drawing the woman away from the bed. “You must come away now. Lora, give a hand here.”

And as Berta moved away, Edric pushed aside the sheeting, revealing a tiny, squirming bairn, his son.

Kathryn felt shaky inside, and brittle, as though she would splinter into pieces with one wrong step. Her legs wobbled with fatigue, and her mind still reeled with all that had happened in the past few days. Unsure what to do with so many Saxons pressing ’round her, she’d followed Edric and Drogan up the steps to a large chamber and found herself pushed inside.

She winced at the shriek of an old woman dressed in black, and wondered what was amiss.

Then Kathryn saw her—the beautiful lady who lay in the bed and the bairn beside her.

Edric’s wife and child
.

The old woman screeched inconsolably, and ’twas only through the efforts of Drogan and the comely young woman they’d called Lora that they managed to pull the crone away. “Stay away!” she cried. “You Saxon dog—you will destroy
him,
too!”

“Begone, hag!” shouted the tall, bearded steward who’d spoken so quietly to Edric. But the woman ignored him, crying out invectives in Kathryn’s native tongue. She winced at the woman’s words and hoped no one could understand her.

Edric turned to the bed, his expression raw with grief. Quickly discerning the situation, Kathryn could well imagine his shock at finding his wife dead in childbed.

As Lora finally managed to draw the old woman away, Drogan took advantage of the moment and lifted the tiny bairn from the bed, his weathered swordsman’s hands seeming out of place as they handled such soft innocence.

“You cannot take him!” the crone wailed.

Quickly, Drogan turned and handed the bairn to Kathryn before she could even consider what he was doing. As she swallowed her alarm and took the infant into her arms, his tiny body went rigid with his cries, inconsolable.

“Lora,” said Edric, his voice clear and distinct
above the cacophony made by the old woman and the bairn. “I don’t understand. ’Tis weeks before her time.”

“Aye. This is why I ordered her to bed a fortnight ago.”

“But—”

“But Lady Cecily went into labor in spite of my precautions,” said the midwife, and Kathryn was amazed at her brazen reply. She had no fear of Lord Edric and spoke to him as though she were a trusted advisor. “Your wife’s labors began long before she called for me…Had started even before you left Braxton Fell, my lord.”

Drogan took charge of the old woman, who continued to weep uncontrollably. When he drew her away, Kathryn wrapped the bairn in a soft woolen blanket. She noticed a small earthen crock on a nearby table with a thin nipple made of sheep’s gut beside it, just like the kind she’d used to feed Soeur Agnes’s lambs. The crock was full of milk.

Taking a seat on a wooden chest near the window, Kathryn tied the false nipple over the mouth of the crock and began to feed the tiny infant, who sucked greedily.

The bairn’s sudden silence was remarkable, and everyone turned to gape at her, even the old Norman crone. Uncomfortable under their scrutiny, Kathryn cast her eyes down.

“’Tis impossible,” said Lora. “The wet nurse has no milk and no one else has been able to coax the bairn to drink.”

“Mayhap he feeds from her because she is Norman,” Drogan suggested, “as his mother was.”

“Mayhap,” said Lora. “Though ’tis more likely the bairn likes her soft breast against his cheek. With the wet nurse ill, none of us thought to do that.”

Kathryn felt her face heat when she realized the blanket had fallen from her shoulder, leaving her breast all but bare. ’Twas only the little bairn’s body that shielded its fullness from the gaze of all who stood watching her.

Too embarrassed to look up at the Saxon, Kathryn continued to feed his child, even when he ran one thumb across the bairn’s soft cheek, then traced the curve of his ear with one finger. Her heart sped up and her nipples tightened, though he had not touched her.

“Lora, you are needed in my brother’s chamber,” he said, half turning to speak to the others. “Drogan, clear the room and take Berta to her chamber. Then go find the priest.”

“What will you do now, Edric?” Drogan asked.

“I’ll remain here and acquaint myself with my son,” he replied coldly. “And his new nurse.”

The steward spoke next, his tone gruff and hostile. “Who is she, my lord?”

“Ferguson’s captive.”

“Another
Norman
?”

Fumbling to pull the blanket back over her shoulders, Kathryn managed to continue feeding the tiny bairn in spite of the steward’s obvious disdain. Their harsh language made her head throb, so she shut out their voices and gave her full attention to the infant in her arms.