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“I-I believe that you will see the error in your thinking. Surely I am not the woman you wish for a wife. You have said as much yourself. Marry the blonde you call Lynette. She would be more to your liking.”

“You, my fiery little shrew, are enough to my liking.”

“I will not wed you.”

He dragged her against him. “You will wed me. Should you continue to refuse, I will carry you up to my bed and dispense with your maidenhead. I will plant my seed so deep it is bound to take root and you will have no choice but to accept your role as my wife.”

“Curse you! You are an ogre! Have you not dealt me enough pain already? Must you continue to inflict more and more?”

At her words, the Norman’s hard look softened. He tipped her chin with his hand. “Hear me well, cherie. I do what is best for you and your sister. Without my name as protection, Malvern will not rest until he beds you—and worse. There is nowhere for you to go, no place where you would be safe. ”

“I ask for my freedom. It is all I have wanted since the day I entered the convent. All I have ever really wanted.”

“A woman can never have such a thing. You belong to the man you call lord. As a child it was your father. Should it not now be me, it would be William or some other. You will do as I tell you. Resign yourself and accept your fate.”

“Rot in hell.”

Ral gripped her arm. “I have been patient with you, Caryn. But should you speak to me that way again, you will feel the weight of my hand.” He jerked her down into her chair and shoved his half-full trencher before her. “Eat. You will need your strength.”

Caryn stared mutely down at her plate, at the dry, dark brown bread moistened with broth and a chunk of roast mutton.

A page filled a goblet with wine and Caryn took a calming sip.

The Dark Knight cast her a last warning glance then ignored her.

For a moment, she found herself oddly irritated that her presence should mean so little, then she went back to eating the meal put before her.

Beside her, Lord Raolfe was engaged in conversation with several of his men, a heated discussion about a group of outlaws who appeared to be hiding in the forest.

Caryn suddenly grew more alert. Saxon rebels—they had to be.

And the Norman and his men were planning to attack them.

On the morrow they would ride out, he said, headed for Baylorn, where word had come down that the band had for sometime been camped.

These men were her people. If only she could help them.

Caryn ate a few more bites of food, her mind spinning with ways she might warn them.

It shouldn’t be too hard. The hall was filled with Saxon servants.

If one of the kitchen maids could be sent to the village, someone there would know how to contact the rebels.

She thought of speaking to Marta, then caste the notion away.

The old woman felt a certain loyalty to the Norman lord.

Besides, she might not approve. Caryn would do it without her.

She was a Saxon by birth. She would do what she had to.

She ate a bit more food then asked Lord Raolfe for permission to leave. One battle with him for the day was enough. Besides, she had more important matters to attend. Caryn forced herself not to hurry from the hall.

***

Ral sat astride his big black destrier, his leather-gloved hands balled fiercely into fists. Around him the remnants of the outlaw camp lay scattered carelessly about, the embers of their fire just recently grown cold.

“’Tis certain they left in all haste,” Odo said. “Should they have learned of our arrival well beforehand, we would not have found a trace. It has been their way to leave little in the way of clues.”

“Send Geoffrey along with ten of our best outriders. I would see if their trail is still warm enough to follow.”

“They will leave no trail, but scatter with the wind. You know that as well as I. It has been their method from the start.”

“Curse the brigands. They murder and rob, yet still some Saxon fool sets out to warn them.”

“Most of the villeins wish them dead. Besides, none knew our plan. Only those in the hall could have known and except for Richard and your betrothed none speak our language.”

Ral had been careful to speak Norman French as they planned the attack.

Richard had been nowhere near and he hated the brigands nearly as much as Ral, but the maid…

Surely her enmity would not lead her to this.

Surely she would fear his wrath—would tremble in terror at what would occur should he discover she played a part in the outlaw’s escape.

He tried to imagine the saucy wench cowering in fear, saw instead her spitting her defiance like a tiny cornered kitten, and knew in an instant who the Saxon traitor had been.

“’Twas the wench,” he growled, jerking Satan’s rein as he spun the big horse around. “Leave off the search. The whoresons will be long gone by now. We will rout them another day.”

In the meantime, he would see to the maid. The bitch would soon learn the price of her folly.