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Malvern’s face turned hard, his nose suddenly looking beaklike and pointed.

“Explain to the Saxon swine that we are well aware of what goes on inside these walls. These so-called convents are havens for the daughters of the very Saxon landlords whose treachery continues to plague us. Places like this breed unrest and discontent. They harbor cults of sedition, and shelter the king’s enemies.

You are lucky William is a man of God, else he would likely order this place and its like burned to the ground. ”

The abbess had begun to tremble.

“Take them outside,” Stephen ordered and the men dragged the women out the door.

Some of them were weeping, struggling to get away. As uncertain as she was, all Caryn could think of was that she was leaving. Even the drudgery of Malvern Castle couldn’t be as bad as the years ahead she faced in the convent.

Then she heard Malvern’s knights begin to mutter among themselves, speaking the Norman French she had been learning for years. They were talking about the women, speaking crudely of what lay under the young girls’ tunics, how they would make short work of the dreary fabric once they were away.

Malvern cautioned them that they would have to wait until they reached shelter. At Braxston Keep the debauchery could begin.

Caryn started to tremble. Sweet God in heaven, the men meant to make the women their whores! Fighting back a wave of fear, she felt a thick male arm slide around her waist. She was hoisted up in the saddle in front of a sallow-faced knight with stringy brown hair.

“Do not fear, demoiselle, ” he said, trying to make himself understood. “I will not let you fall.” The arm beneath her breast gave a too familiar squeeze then he set his spurs to the sides of his horse.

“Trust in God,” the abbess called out as they thundered away. “You will all be in our prayers.”

For the first time in a long time, Caryn gave up a fervent prayer of her own.

***

Raolfe de Gere forded the icy stream toward home then awaited his men and retainers on the opposite side. The day had been a long one, the final leg of a journey from Pontefact, where he had met with several other barons concerned with the problem of the outlaws plaguing the nearby hills.

Odo rode beside him. They had been friends since boyhood, when they had both been fostered to Ral’s uncle. They had free-lanced together as knights, gaining experience in battle, then returned to Normandy to serve Duke William before he became the king.

“What say you, Ral, do we make camp here or ride for home? ’Twould make for a long day’s journey, but the comfort of a fire and a good hot meal would well be worth it.”

“Aye,” Ral said, “I too crave the sight of home.” Braxston Keep. He was Lord of Braxston now, a token of William’s esteem for his long years of service.

Like his father before him and his father before that, Ral had ridden beside his liege lord, sworn to fealty and determined to honor that vow even at the cost of his life.

So long had his family been known for their knights’ service, they had come to be called de Gere.

Men of war. He prayed his own son’s life would not be spent fighting those same bloody battles .

“Then we ride?” Odo pressed.

“Aye.” Ral grinned. “Mayhap Lynette will still be about. Then the journey would be rewarded by a pair of soft thighs and a ride far more pleasant than this one.”

Odo smiled. “God’s truth, Ral, whether the maid be abed or not, there is little doubt she’ll be well ridden this eve.”

Ral chuckled good-naturedly. “Let the men water their horses and rest for a time, then we’ll make ready and be off for the castle.”

He found himself eager to return. In the three years since William’s grant of the lands near Braxston Gap, once belonging to Harold of Ivesham, and Ral’s construction of the keep and its surrounding walls, he had come to think of the place as home.

In truth, the first he had known since his boyhood.

The lands his father had amassed through the years had gone to Alain, his older brother.

He could have had his share but there wasn’t really enough for the two of them and he believed he could garner lands of his own.

William had obliged after Senlac, giving him the demesme that had been wrested from the plotting old Saxon thegn.

“I may find a willing wench of my own this night,” Odo said as they rode along. “The kitchen maid, Bretta, appears willing enough to spread her thighs for a silver coin or two.”

“I’ve little fear you will go untended.”

“Nay, ’tis truth, yet a wife would be more to my liking.

” He smiled, his freckled face looking a little younger than his thirty years, a single year older than Ral.

“’Twould be better to be greeted by a comely maid who would warm my bed and bear me lusty sons.

I vow I shall set about finding one before the winter settles in. You should give thought to the same.”

In truth, he already had. Now that he owned a castle and lands, was overlord to a large number of churls and villeins, and was one of William’s most trusted barons, he could use a helping hand. And stout sons who would inherit the lands and fortune he intended to amass.

He thought of his mother, gentle and caring, seeing to his father’s every command, making the hall run smoothly.

Loving mother, wife… woman. His sisters were equally devoted to the men they had married.

They were skillful in the kitchen, adept at embroidery, at tending their children, the sick, and the needs of their men.

William would approve and assist with the match, and with the king’s aid, the woman would no doubt be well dowered.

Marriage… aye. A faint smile curved his lips.

He would see to it, Ral decided. Lynette would be angry, but she had known from the start one day he would wed.

Besides, what difference would a marriage make between them?

She would still be his leman, would still warm his bed.

Ral smiled even more broadly and rode on.

***

Caryn knew well the path through the forest they now traveled.

It took them through marshland overgrown with bracken, then higher into the mountains.

The path led to Ivesham Hall—or at least what had once been the place of her childhood.

Now that great wooden structure with its timber palisade lay in ruins, her uncle as dead as her mother and father, a victim of his own rebellion against King William’s rule.

Caryn never saw him after the day she was taken to the convent.

During the period of her recovery, she had learned of the attack on the hall, of her uncle Harold’s death, and the surrender of his small valiant group of defenders.

Someone had mentioned the Dark Knight’s name, but it was said another powerful knight had actually lain waste to the hall.

A short time later, work began on Braxston Keep, which now rose up in its stead, though Caryn had never seen it .

She guessed this night she would and something unwelcome tightened inside her.

“’Tis not far now,” said the gruff knight who held her. “You will soon be in out of the cold.”

Out of the cold and into the hot lecherous hands of one of Malvern’s men.

Sweet Mary, she knew what that would be like.

She would never forget her sister’s pitiful moans as a brutal Norman thrust between her legs.

Caryn had fought them, done her best to stop them.

She would fight them again if she had to, but first she would try to outwit them.

She feigned sleep as they rode along, but beneath her half-closed lids, her eyes remained watchful, and just as the gruff knight had said, it wasn’t long before the gray stone walls of Braxston Keep rose up before them, a tall stark fortress against the backdrop of a glowing moon.

Lord Stephen and two of his knights rode forward, speaking to the wardcorne, the watchman at the gate, seeking shelter for the eve while the other men, no longer tired but eager now for what lay ahead, restlessly awaited the lowering of the drawbridge.

When word finally came, the horses’ hooves thudded eerily against the heavy oaken planks, their exhaustion as apparent as Caryn’s own.

It was the numbness, her sense of disbelief combined with the chilling cold, that allowed her to keep her senses.

It was no secret now, the fate about to befall them.

Too many groping hands, too many lewd remarks that in any language foretold the Normans’ awful intent.

While the other girls sobbed and begged for mercy, receiving no end of rough warnings and brutal slaps, Caryn remained silent, determined somehow that she would not fall victim to such a fate.

Outside the tall stone tower a hundred feet square, its walls at the base nearly twenty feet thick, they climbed the wooden stairs to the first floor entrance to the keep and made their way into the great hall.

It stood two stories high with a vaulted ceiling open at one end to let out smoke from the fire pit.

A second floor gallery wrapped around it, and great stone stairs spiraled steeply upward until they disappeared.

“’Tis unfortunate Lord Raolfe has not returned,” someone said to de Montreale in French with heavy Saxon overtones.

Caryn twisted in the arms of the knight who held her, then sucked in a great breath of air at the sight of Richard of Pembroke, a sandy-haired man in his middle twenties who had once been steward to her uncle.

“You must send him our thanks for the use of his hall.” Lord Stephen smiled, making him look deceptively handsome. “My men are weary. They require food and drink. We shall be off again once they are rested.”

“Mayhap you could advise us how long your stay might be,” Richard said a bit unkindly. Caryn didn’t miss his unconcealed dislike of Stephen de Montreale.