Jenni Fletcher - Married To Her Enemy

Which had left her to do it, acting as Thane in deed if not name, doing her best to behave as their father would have wanted. But then he’d never faced a Norman invasion! How could she know what he would have done? Would he have run away or simply refused to leave, like Eadgyth? Or put up a fight, defending Etton to the bitter and bloody end? Her heart suspected the latter, but her head had prevailed. What chance did Saxon farmers have against Norman soldiers?

Her gaze slid towards the leather curtain that separated the birthing chamber from the hall, as if she were expecting a horde of Normans to burst through at any moment. What chance did three women have?

She only hoped she’d done the right thing.

She leaned over and stroked the side of Cille’s face—her face, so like hers that they might have been twins, not sisters born two years apart. Every small feature seemed to mirror her own, from the sharply arched brows to the slightly pointed chin. Only their eyes told them apart. Cille’s a warm forget-me-not blue, soft and gentle as a summer’s sky, and her own a fiery brown with gold flecks flashing like lightning across them.

A tear seeped from the corner of one of those eyes now and she brushed it aside, reaching across to clasp Cille’s trembling hands between her own. The fingers felt damp and clammy, as if she were sweating and shivering at the same time. In mercy’s name, how much more could either of them take?

‘Take care of the baby.’

The voice was faint, but Aediva jumped, afraid that she might have imagined it. But, no, those were Cille’s eyes staring up at her, black orbs ringed with crimson shadows so large they seemed to drain the life from her small, sunken face.

‘Hush.’ She smiled reassuringly. ‘You need to save your strength.’

‘Please...’ Cille’s voice was ragged, but the look on her face was deadly serious. ‘Promise me. Take care of my child.’

Aediva caught her breath, hot tears scalding the backs of her eyelids. ‘I promise.’

‘There’s something else.’ Cille heaved herself up on her elbows, ignoring Eadgyth’s grunt of protest. ‘Something I need to tell you.’

‘Later. You need to...’

She left the sentence unfinished as she heard a noise outside—a faint rumble at first, building steadily to a thunderous crescendo. The unmistakable heavy pounding of hooves, and lots of them.

Warhorses!

A jolt of panic tore through her body. She’d thought she could control her emotions, but now that the time had come and all hope of escape was lost all she could feel was the rush of blood in her ears and the terrible, deafening thud of her own heartbeat.

Not yet! The plea echoed in her head. Not before the baby was born! They needed more time!

Cille sank back onto the bed with a gasp, her body convulsing with pain. Had she heard it too?

Aediva exchanged a look with Eadgyth, an unspoken message passing between them, and then reached under the bed and drew out a long iron broadsword. It was almost as tall as she was, and heavy to boot, but it was a formidable weapon. She only hoped she could wield it.

Briefly she glanced down at her dishevelled appearance. She’d barely had time to dress that morning, throwing on a simple homespun tunic that was already mud-stained and tattered. Her hair was even more unkempt, coiling down her back in a mass of tangles. She hadn’t had time to put on a headdress. Not that it mattered. What the Normans thought of her appearance was the very least of her worries.

She dropped a kiss onto Cille’s forehead and pulled back the curtain to the deserted hall. Now that the first rush of panic was over, she knew what she had to do.

She took a deep breath, willing her heart to stop racing. She couldn’t help Cille give birth, but she could keep the Norman invaders away until the baby was born. No matter what, she wouldn’t let them into this chamber.

No matter what. Or who.

* * *

Sir Svend du Danemark ran a hand through pale blond hair and swore fluently under his breath.

‘It looks like they knew we were coming.’

His squire, Renard, had a habit of stating the obvious.

Steel-blue eyes narrowed, taking in every detail of the terrain with the experienced gaze of a professional soldier. The base of the valley was a craggy gorge, split down the middle by a meandering river that carried water from the high hills to the east. There was no sign of habitation, just gorse and a scattering of twisted hawthorns, but as the river curved to the south, the land rose and flattened out into a ledge, revealing the stockade of a small, almost completely hidden settlement. No wonder it had taken so long to find.

Svend swallowed another oath. At this time of year the villagers should have been busy harvesting their crops, but the long strips of farmland were deserted. Instead he could see fresh furrows in the mud, tracks left by horses and carts. If they’d put out a banner the residents couldn’t have made their departure any more obvious.

‘Ten shillings if she’s still here?’ Renard persisted.

‘Twenty,’ Svend murmured, resisting the urge to knock his squire into the mud.

In truth, he would have paid a lot more to get this over with. Hunting a woman was no honourable task for a knight and he resented his orders—even if they did come from the King via his cousin, William FitzOsbern, the new Earl of Hereford.

Hawklike, his gaze narrowed in on the meagre earthen defences. What in blazes was Lady Cille doing here? The village was well hidden, but hardly a stronghold. What had made her flee a fortress like Redbourn and take refuge in such an isolated place? And why the hell was he wasting his time finding her? Surely the future of the Conquest couldn’t depend on one Saxon woman!

There must be something more important he could be doing!

He kept his thoughts to himself. He’d learnt to keep his own counsel a long time ago, preferring to live up to the reputation his men had ascribed him of being inscrutable, keeping his emotions well hidden.

‘Take the men and surround the palisade.’ He rubbed the light blond stubble on his chin with irritation. He needed a bath and a shave. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

‘You’re going alone, sir?’

Renard’s expression was anxious and Svend raised an eyebrow, not sure whether to be amused or insulted. ‘She’s only one woman.’

‘But it might be a trap. The Saxons might be hiding.’

‘Perhaps.’ He bit back a sarcastic retort. ‘But she’s more likely to come peacefully if we don’t scare the wits out of her.’

‘She might be armed.’

‘I’m certain of it.’

He placed a reassuring hand on the younger man’s shoulder. Renard was a good squire, and would make a fine knight one day, but he could be annoyingly over-attentive at times.

‘Don’t worry. You’ll be close by if she overpowers me.’

He winked, spurring his destrier forward before Renard could detect the sarcasm. The hill was steep but he surged fearlessly ahead, trusting his mount’s training and his men’s obedience as they thundered towards the stockade, his blond hair, worn to shoulder-length rather than in the cropped Norman fashion, streaming behind him like a banner of white gold, as if he were charging headlong into battle.

The wind tore at his face and he grinned, sharing his mount’s exhilaration. Talbot was a fine specimen, sixteen hands high at his grey shoulder, and worth every bruise it had taken to win him. Svend’s grin spread wickedly as he recalled the French Baron whose haughty dismissal of a fifteen-year-old farmer’s son had cost him his finest warhorse—not to mention his dignity before the then Duke William of Normandy.

It was the same day that he’d been plucked from a life of brawling in tournaments and offered training as a household knight—been given a sense of focus and purpose, a way to vent the anger of his past. His low rank hadn’t made him popular with the rest of the high-born squires at William’s court, but thick skin and quick fists had earned him a position he could never have dreamed of. Knighthood and a place in the King’s personal guard. It was no mean feat for the fourth son of a Danish farmer.