Margo Maguire: Saxon Lady

Her father had been dead merely a month, yet this usurper had moved in as if he had every right to do so. As if her father had never been lord here.

“You think not, my lady?” Mathieu Fitz Autier took hold of her arm and led her roughly to the window. “Observe. All that you see is mine. You are vanquished, Saxon.”

Aelia turned to slap his arrogant face, but he caught her hand and pressed it against the cool metal hauberk covering his chest. ’Twas a place where no normal heart pulsed, but a cold and cruel one.

Yet he did not strike back. He lowered his head, his face, his lips coming but a breath away from hers.

And then he kissed her. He slid his hands around her waist as he lowered his mouth to her jaw, then her ear and her throat, sipping, tasting Aelia.

The Virtuous Knight

“These are memorable characters whose story plays out against a well-researched backdrop.”

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His Lady Fair

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Dryden’s Bride

“Exquisitely detailed…an entrancing tale that will enchant and envelop you as love conquers all.”

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Celtic Bride

“Set against the backdrop of a turbulent era, Margo Maguire’s heart-rending and colorful tale of star-crossed lovers is sure to win readers’ hearts.”

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This book is dedicated to Kate Blessing, a reader, musician and scholar. May your last high school years be as full of grace and brilliance as your first.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Northern England

Early Autumn, 1068

I t was all Lady Aelia could do to keep her men calm before the battle ensued. She walked the perimeter of the palisade and spoke to the archers, bolstering their courage, praising their prowess in battle.

“’Twas not for lack of skill that we’ve survived against the enemy these past months!” she called to them. “You are worthy warriors, you are Ingelwald’s heroes! Fear not the Norman bastard, Fitz Autier, who invades our lands. He is no different from Gui de Reviers, or any of the others whom you killed in battle—he is powerless against our might!”

Aelia hoped it was true. The tales of Mathieu Fitz Autier’s conquests were many and terrifying. He had become a legend in Northumberland with his ruthless ways, sent by King William to conquer where other warriors had failed. No Saxon man, woman or child was spared when Fitz Autier won the day.

Aelia would just have to make certain that he won naught at Ingelwald.

It was nearly dawn, and a hazy mist hovered below. She could sense more than see the activity on the ground beyond Ingelwald’s stone walls. Fitz Autier, no doubt, was marshaling his men into position. But Aelia refused to be unnerved by the enemy she had not yet seen.

Many formidable thanes of Northumberland had come to Ingelwald when their own smaller holdings had fallen, swearing fealty to Wallis, Aelia’s father. Now that Wallis and so many of those Saxon warriors were dead, it fell to Aelia to deliver her people from the Norman peril.

A sudden, hard yank on her arm nearly pulled her off her feet. She whirled ’round and faced the angry countenance of Selwyn, her betrothed. His bearded face lacked the comeliness of a younger man, someone closer to Aelia’s age. And now he lacked even the lands that had swayed Wallis’s decision to give the man his daughter.

Wallis had wanted to ally himself with his closest neighbor, who had a fine estate to the south. And to keep Aelia near him after she married. ’Twas the primary reason he’d given his promise to make her Selwyn’s wife.

“Get down with the women and children,” he rasped angrily, spraying spittle from his darkened lips.

With distaste, Aelia pulled her arm from his viselike grip. “No. These are my father’s archers. They look to me for—”

“Ingelwald is my ward now, as are you and young Osric,” Selwyn asserted, and not for the first time.

“My father made no such provision,” Aelia retorted, her temper flaring, “as you well know.” Wallis had promised her to Selwyn only for the purpose of allying Ingelwald with its powerful neighbor, Selwyn’s holding—which had already fallen to the Normans.

That purpose was moot now, and Aelia would have an end to this distasteful betrothal as soon as her battle for Ingelwald was won.

’Twas unnaturally quiet on the grounds below, the women and children huddled within the walls of her father’s hall, praying for deliverance. It was not Aelia’s intention to join them.

“Wallis never meant for you to dress yourself as some fabled shield-maiden in breeches and tunic,” said Selwyn, “yet you stand here among the men with your quiver on your back, your bow at the ready. What think you, woman? That you are some fatal match for the bastard Fitz Autier?”

Naught would please Aelia more than to be the one whose arrow took the life of that Norman warrior. Yet she would be satisfied if any one of her father’s men accomplished the feat.

“Aelia!”

She and Selwyn turned to see the young red-haired boy who ran toward them. Her brother was merely ten years old, but had the reckless daring and unyielding fortitude of a man twice his age. ’Twas all Aelia could do to keep the lad out of trouble even as she was careful not to crush his formidable spirit.

“’Tis dangerous up here, Osric,” she said.

“Get away with you, boy!” Selwyn demanded.

Wary of unsettling the warriors who manned the battlements, Aelia drew Osric to a quiet corner and spoke softly to him. “Did I not give you a task—an important one?”

“Aye,” he said.

“But you are here with the archers. Were you not instructed to assist the swordsmen with their armor?”

“Aelia, I cannot,” the boy protested, his exuberance nearly palpable. “I am master of Ingelwald and I must—”

“Bah!” Selwyn’s guttural retort sounded behind her, but she ignored him.

“You must return to the horsemen of Father’s fyrd, Osric. They will need every hand to prepare for battle.”

“They are mounted and ready for the dawn,” her brother said. “My place is here with you. I have my bow.”

And he could easily be shot. Aelia searched her mind for a new task to set him upon, something that would not seem trifling to him.

“Christ’s bones, woman!” Selwyn growled. He pushed Aelia aside, grabbed Osric by the scruff of his tunic and shoved him toward the ladder. “Get you gone, boy! This is no place for a brat.”