Ana Seymour - Lord Of Lyonsbridge

Connor squinted toward the castle as if expecting to see her coming toward him, as he had that morning. He’d given no sign, but her visit had hit him with visceral impact. It was not that he’d been long deprived of the company of women. There were always plenty of obliging maidens in the village to see to his needs and amusement. But he couldn’t remember ever having the sight of a female affect him so absolutely. He’d felt it the previous day, the first time he’d set eyes on her. This morning, seeing her emerging from the mist like some kind of regal faerie queen had quite simply robbed him of his senses.

It had robbed him of his reason, too. He’d spoken brashly, without a thought for the consequences, which was a luxury he no longer allowed himself. He had too many responsibilities to be so foolhardy. It couldn’t happen again.

“The lass has me muddled,” he admitted to his brother.

Father Martin looked surprised at the admission and a little worried. “Connor, you know you would never be able—” He broke off and laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “She’s a Norman, brother.”

“I know. Don’t mistake me, Martin. I’m not likely to forget my—” he looked around at the stable yard “—my place at Lyonsbridge. ‘Tis clear enough at which end of the salt I sit.”

Father Martin looked relieved. “I suspect you’ll grow used to seeing her around in time. It appears she’s something of a horsewoman.”

Connor jumped to the ground and gave his brother a grin. “Aye, there’s no law against looking at a pretty maid, is there?”

Father Martin rolled his eyes. “Not in your world, at least.”

His brother laughed. “Ah, Martin, the Lord won’t punish you for a glance or two. When you’re at Mass with her today, give it a try and tell me if you don’t think her eyes are golden.”

With more difficulty than his brother, Father Martin slid to the ground, shaking his head. He turned with a rueful smile. “I’ve already looked, brother, and, yes, a truer gold I’ve never seen.”

The lady Ellen didn’t come to the stables the next two days. Her mount—Jocelyn, she’d called it—grew restive in its stall, and Connor walked it around the stable yard. She was a fine animal, and he’d have enjoyed riding her, but decided it would be prudent to await the mistress’s orders on the matter, particularly after his outburst the other morning.

He still berated himself for losing his usual control in such a fashion. At his father’s deathbed, he’d promised to look after the people of Lyonsbridge, and at his mother’s, he’d promised to keep peace in the land. He could do neither task if he made the new masters so angry that they ran him off the place.

Since something about the beautiful new mistress of Lyonsbridge seemed to spark the defiant streak he’d worked so hard to tame, he knew he’d do well to stay out of the lady’s way. He should be glad she hadn’t come again to the stables. Still, he found himself glancing toward the castle several times a day, hoping to see her heading toward him.

This morning it was not the lady Ellen scurrying down the hill, but John the cooper’s son. Connor was repairing a shoe on one of the Norman horses. He paused in his work to greet the boy with a smile.

“Whoa, lad, slow down. What’s your hurry on such a beautiful morn?”

John skidded to a stop near Connor and took a gasping breath. “Good morrow, Master Connor.”

Connor marveled at the boy’s unfailing courtesy, even though he was obviously agitated. “Good morrow, John. Now tell me what’s troubling you.”

The words tumbled out as the boy shifted from one foot to the other. “I’m sorry to bother you, Master Connor. I haven’t forgotten your words in the village-that we have to give the new masters a chance.

Everyone’s trying, truly they are. But you know that me mum’s doing poorly. She’s hardly been able to eat these past four days, and Sarah must stay there to mind her, but Sir William’s men have ordered all tenants to the castle. No exception, they say, by order of the new mistress.”

Connor sighed and carefully lifted the horse’s hoof out of his lap. The animal didn’t move. “Did you explain to Sir William’s men about your mother? Surely they know she has the wasting sickness?”

“No exceptions, they said.” The boy gave a vigorous shake of his head, jiggling his cropped blond hair like a shaft of wheat. “They don’t care, these Normans.”

“Why are they commanding everyone to the castle?” Connor asked, laying aside his chisel.

John shrugged. “’Tis daft, if you ask me. They say the lady Ellen has ordered a scouring from floor to ceiling, every room.”

Connor couldn’t argue with the fact that a “scouring” was sorely needed. There had been times when he’d winced at the forlorn state of Lyonsbridge Castle, thinking that his mother would be lying restless in her tomb. He glanced over at the stables, where even the hay was stacked in neat bundles. Though its occupants were animals, he’d daresay his domain was a sight tidier than the great hall of the castle.

“The cleaning’s not a bad idea, lad,” Connor told the boy. “But they’ve help aplenty to carry it out. They shouldn’t need your mother, nor your sister.”

“They’ve already taken Sarah. One of the soldiers dragged her off.”

“Dragged her off?” At this, Connor stood, overturning the stool behind him. Sarah Cooper was barely thirteen years, a slight, pretty girl and much too fragile to defend herself against a randy Norman soldier.

“That’s why I came to you, Master Connor. I couldn’t stop them. There was too many of them.”

Connor’s heart went out to the lad. Only a year older than his sister, young John had tried to be the man of the cooper’s household since his father had been killed by the Normans five years earlier. Connor put a hand on his shoulder.

“You did right, John. It would have been foolish to defy an entire band of guards. It was good that you came to me.”

“They wouldn’t hurt Sarah, would they?” he asked. His voice broke, making him sound younger than his years.

“Nay, they wouldn’t dare hurt her if ‘tis the lady Ellen’s orders they’re following.” Connor had no idea if his optimistic words were true, but the boy looked relieved. “Come, we’ll go find her and straighten this out.”

“Will you talk to the lady Ellen directly?” John asked.

Connor began to lead the horse into the stable. At the boy’s words, he felt a tingle of awareness along his limbs. The image of Lady Ellen Wakelin’s golden eyes danced in his head.

“Aye, lad. I’ll talk to the lady Ellen directly.”

Ellen tucked the long sleeves of her silk bliaut into the wristlets of her undergown. For a moment she wished she could strip off the elaborate finery and don a simple, coarse linen garment such as the one worn by the peasant girl working alongside her. The trailing dress and the heavy silver corselet that she wore atop it were not at all practical for hard labor. But donning rude clothing would not help her cause of showing these Saxons something of the civilized world beyond Lyonsbridge. By the time her father visited in the spring, she wanted the estate to be as smoothly run, the table to be as richly victualed, and the people to be as properly mannered as any back in Normandy. As the lady of the household, she would set the example.

“Will the table need polishing, too, milady?” the girl with her asked. They’d been rubbing oil into the two heavy wooden dining chairs that were reserved for the master and mistress of the household. Their carved backs had been thick with grime, but Ellen had to admit that the workmanship was as fine as any Norman craft.